Day 27, January 27, 11am: I met myself for lunch the other day.
Or rather, I met somebody else's version of me. Of me as a schoolboy.
I had not seen Matt since the age of 13, give or take. We were at school together. He sent me an email recently and we spent a great lunch discussing ourselves. There's something to say for nostalgia after all, I've decided. It's strange how our lives have worked out.
Matt remembers me as a star pupil, to whom everybody looked up to. I remember myself as an unpopular, solitary little tyke. Matt has had a hugely successful career and is as fit as two fleas (despite the odd helath issue and creaking knee joint) and cycles around 30km a day. He has an Aston Martin. I have been singularly unsuccessful, am not as fit as a single flea and trudge about 4km a day. I have a third-hand VW.
Matt's resolution, incidentally, is to pass a Maths A level and then take some degree so fiendishly clever that I've already forgotten what it it. He'll surely let me know.
It was great, though, to see him (despite the Aston Martin. Mind you, it had a dent in it, which cheered me up a bit. Our VW, incidentally, is more dent than car). Which brings me to one of my resolutions - to contact as many people from my past as I can via email. So far, I reckon I'm back in touch with at least 40 people from school, university and former work places. It's been a revelation. I feel quite social at the moment. After 49 years of being a grumpy old sod.
Not that ever email has been full of joy. There's been bereavements, divorces and ill health to contend with. But there have also been great tales. One of my ex-girlfriends must top the bill, with her nine children. No wonder her New Year resolution is to get more sleep.
Tuesday, 27 January 2009
Saturday, 24 January 2009
A Faller at Bechers Brook
Day 24, Saturday January 24, 11.30am - And they're tightly packed, approaching Bechers Brook for the first time, and... and... and we have our first faller! I can't quite see who it is but someone's gone down!
Oh but no, wait, she's up, she's remounted, she's up and running again.
At least, that's what Sam says she will be doing. Sam came clean on Friday. After two weeks without a single crisp passing her lips - her New Year resolution - she crashed spectacularly to earth by devouring a box of Pringles over three days. "Well, two and a half, actually," she says, sheepishly.
Sam blames her husband. She knew the Pringles were in the cupboard, left over from Christmas, and, keen to remove the temptation, asked him to take them to work with him. Her husband forgot and the rest is history.
Sam, however, tells me that she will be getting back in the saddle on Monday.
Mind you, I remain to be convinced. First, she blames someone else. Then she gives herself a 48-hour window before trying again. 48 hours could mean a lot of salt-and-vinegars and cheese-and-onions. I am not sure this bodes well. Watch this space.
Oh but no, wait, she's up, she's remounted, she's up and running again.
At least, that's what Sam says she will be doing. Sam came clean on Friday. After two weeks without a single crisp passing her lips - her New Year resolution - she crashed spectacularly to earth by devouring a box of Pringles over three days. "Well, two and a half, actually," she says, sheepishly.
Sam blames her husband. She knew the Pringles were in the cupboard, left over from Christmas, and, keen to remove the temptation, asked him to take them to work with him. Her husband forgot and the rest is history.
Sam, however, tells me that she will be getting back in the saddle on Monday.
Mind you, I remain to be convinced. First, she blames someone else. Then she gives herself a 48-hour window before trying again. 48 hours could mean a lot of salt-and-vinegars and cheese-and-onions. I am not sure this bodes well. Watch this space.
Wednesday, 21 January 2009
Did you survive Blue Monday? Rona did...
Day 21, Wednesday January 21, 11pm - Did TRSNYRC survive Blue Monday, the most depressing day of the year?
Apparently Monday was when the bad weather, the incoming bills, the credit crunch headlines and our collective failure to keep our New Year resolutions finally hit home. Everyone, as far as I understand, returned to their former ways, the gyms cleared of people, the pubs were filled to the rafters, everyone gorged on chocolate eclairs and we all returned to normal for the rest of the year.
Only time will tell what damage the TRSNYRC suffered. The club is due for its first meeting on February 7. Hopefully, someone will turn up.
Just for the record, we have about 45 members, at the last cursory count. I will try to produce an exact figure in the weeks to come. We have a presence in India, Australia and the United States. Our resolutions vary from the staple (lose weight, drink less) to the exotic (take a degree, learn a language, a musical instrument, restore a sailing boat, put on a one-man play, produce a sketch a day) to the bizarre and not immediately comprehensible (catch a 20lb pike, use left hand and left foot more often).
My favourite so far, though, comes from Rona, my cousin Mick's wife. They visited us last week. We had not seen them for 10 years, not since they moved to Australia. They're good sorts.
Rona, a French teacher, has MS and has spent a fair part of the last two years in a wheelchair. Her resolution? To stop being apologetic, when she holds people up or gets in their way or runs over their chiahuahuas or grandchildren. Rona, of course, is not disabled and never will be. Nor is she a victim, even if it's easy for her to believe it at times, when the rest of us fuss over her or talk to Mick as if she wasn't in the room. ("Does she take sugar?" Actually, Mick has a marvellous riposte to that. "I'll ask her," he replies. Then he says to Rona: "Do you take sugar?" And she replies to Mick: "No." And then Mick looks up and says with a sweet smile: "No, she doesn't.") No, Rona isn't disabled. She just moves a bit slower than she used to. But then, don't we all? Rona has other plans for 2009 which I know she'll share with us in due course.
I bet she didn't even notice Monday was blue at all. She was too busy getting on with things. And not apologising. At the moment, indeed, I find it hard to think of someone who has less need to say sorry, about anything. And don't you hate chiahuahuas and other people's grandchildren anyway?
Apparently Monday was when the bad weather, the incoming bills, the credit crunch headlines and our collective failure to keep our New Year resolutions finally hit home. Everyone, as far as I understand, returned to their former ways, the gyms cleared of people, the pubs were filled to the rafters, everyone gorged on chocolate eclairs and we all returned to normal for the rest of the year.
Only time will tell what damage the TRSNYRC suffered. The club is due for its first meeting on February 7. Hopefully, someone will turn up.
Just for the record, we have about 45 members, at the last cursory count. I will try to produce an exact figure in the weeks to come. We have a presence in India, Australia and the United States. Our resolutions vary from the staple (lose weight, drink less) to the exotic (take a degree, learn a language, a musical instrument, restore a sailing boat, put on a one-man play, produce a sketch a day) to the bizarre and not immediately comprehensible (catch a 20lb pike, use left hand and left foot more often).
My favourite so far, though, comes from Rona, my cousin Mick's wife. They visited us last week. We had not seen them for 10 years, not since they moved to Australia. They're good sorts.
Rona, a French teacher, has MS and has spent a fair part of the last two years in a wheelchair. Her resolution? To stop being apologetic, when she holds people up or gets in their way or runs over their chiahuahuas or grandchildren. Rona, of course, is not disabled and never will be. Nor is she a victim, even if it's easy for her to believe it at times, when the rest of us fuss over her or talk to Mick as if she wasn't in the room. ("Does she take sugar?" Actually, Mick has a marvellous riposte to that. "I'll ask her," he replies. Then he says to Rona: "Do you take sugar?" And she replies to Mick: "No." And then Mick looks up and says with a sweet smile: "No, she doesn't.") No, Rona isn't disabled. She just moves a bit slower than she used to. But then, don't we all? Rona has other plans for 2009 which I know she'll share with us in due course.
I bet she didn't even notice Monday was blue at all. She was too busy getting on with things. And not apologising. At the moment, indeed, I find it hard to think of someone who has less need to say sorry, about anything. And don't you hate chiahuahuas and other people's grandchildren anyway?
Monday, 19 January 2009
Too busy to blog
Day 19, Monday 19 January - Blimey, where do people find the time to blog? I have 1,086 things on today's "To Do List" - and that doesn't include this entry.
I couldn't resist commenting on Roy's follower's photo, though. For you who do not know Roy, it was taken on a good day.
And I couldn't resist mentioning that we have our first international comment. Sharmila, you're a darling. And yes, of course I can remember your New Delhi cabbage. I'm still trying, 10 years later, and have still not managed to re-create it. What am I doing wrong?
I couldn't resist commenting on Roy's follower's photo, though. For you who do not know Roy, it was taken on a good day.
And I couldn't resist mentioning that we have our first international comment. Sharmila, you're a darling. And yes, of course I can remember your New Delhi cabbage. I'm still trying, 10 years later, and have still not managed to re-create it. What am I doing wrong?
Tuesday, 13 January 2009
TRSNYRC member reported to police
Day 13, January 13, 11.45pm: The police officer on duty was sympathetic but unequivocal.
"No, Mr Lawrence, I'm afraid there has never been a successful prosecution of nutritional harrassment. Indeed, there is no such criminal offence."
I offered to show him the offending anonymous mobile phone texts but he remained adamant. Obscenities would be quite another matter, of course. "What about civil rather than criminal litiagation?" I suggested as I was ushered to the door.
I may still opt for a private prosecution, of course, once I've worked through the list of suspects.
The first text was the hardest to take.
"Pringles," it said.
Now, as you may know from this blog, I am meant to be losing almost two stone this year from my waistline. That, at least, is what I have foolishly resolved. And Pringles happen to be a particular weakness of mine. Clearly the text came from someone with inside knowledge.
"Sofa sofa stollen and sweets" soon followed. Then: "R u well? It looks like u are wasting away." I turned my phone after the fourth message. "Apple tart," it said. Thank goodness it did not mention warm custard. I might have cracked otherwise.
I will not rest until the miscreant has been named and shamed. I shall keep all my well-wishers posted on developements.
Gawd, I could kill for a Pringle right now.
STOP PRESS: "Deep Fried Mars Bar" landed on my phone this evening. I intend to go back to the police station tomorrow morning.
"No, Mr Lawrence, I'm afraid there has never been a successful prosecution of nutritional harrassment. Indeed, there is no such criminal offence."
I offered to show him the offending anonymous mobile phone texts but he remained adamant. Obscenities would be quite another matter, of course. "What about civil rather than criminal litiagation?" I suggested as I was ushered to the door.
I may still opt for a private prosecution, of course, once I've worked through the list of suspects.
The first text was the hardest to take.
"Pringles," it said.
Now, as you may know from this blog, I am meant to be losing almost two stone this year from my waistline. That, at least, is what I have foolishly resolved. And Pringles happen to be a particular weakness of mine. Clearly the text came from someone with inside knowledge.
"Sofa sofa stollen and sweets" soon followed. Then: "R u well? It looks like u are wasting away." I turned my phone after the fourth message. "Apple tart," it said. Thank goodness it did not mention warm custard. I might have cracked otherwise.
I will not rest until the miscreant has been named and shamed. I shall keep all my well-wishers posted on developements.
Gawd, I could kill for a Pringle right now.
STOP PRESS: "Deep Fried Mars Bar" landed on my phone this evening. I intend to go back to the police station tomorrow morning.
Wednesday, 7 January 2009
Cards, Carrots and a Glass of Water on the Table
Day 8, Thursday January 8, 11.30am - It's time to lay my cards down on the table. Well, my trump card anyway. As head sloth I feel that, with less than 51 weeks of 2009 to go, I should lead the way by going public.
Thus my main resolution for 2009 will be to... to... to...
Actually, this is rather more difficult than I thought. I'm with Big Frank on this (see comment, January 7). You think of one thing and it leads to another. It proliferates catholically. One minute you're thinking about spending more time with your family and the next you're musing over the very nature of human happiness. My nephew Towering Andrew made the point to me in a recent email that simplicity is the key to a good resolution. I find myself caught in a multi-facted, self-perpetuating chain reaction.
The initial idea seemed simple enough. My main resolution for 2009 will be to return to my 1989 weight. There you have it. Short and to the point. I was trundling my way through the odd mini-triathlon at the time and somehow got down to 11st 7lbs. I was at my fittest. I am now 13st 4lbs - well, I was yesterday (I seem to range from anything to 13st-13st 10lb) - and at my fattest.
The trouble began, however, when I gave myself time to reflect. How did I intend to achieve this weight loss? And, more unsettlingly, why bother with such a New-Year-resolution-cliche in the first place?
My method, I decided, should involve the gym (10 minutes yomp away), more walking about town, and proper eating and drinking. That led to a visit to see one of the gym trainers last week, which in turn spawned sub-resolution (i) - three 45-minute visits to the gym a week, plus two 30-minute home strecthing sessions, (ii) walk to school and back each day (2.4 miles for Seven-Year-Old-She-Devil, 4.8 miles for me) (iii) walk to the shops (0.6 miles away) (iv) buy a book on nutrition and learn what I should be eating and why.
You see what I mean about proliferation?
The book's now arrived, incidentally, leading to (v) drink water whenever I feel tempted by the sweet cupboard (vi) breakfast like a king, lunch like a queen, dinner like a pauper (vii) cut down (cut out altogether?) on alcohol, confectionery, ice cream and pastry.
And what about my motives?
I'm not really sure I can answer that. I had my mid-life crisis at 40 but I'm pretty sure that ended last year (see "Hacked Off" on Amazon - apologies about the plug). I may be turning 50 this year, grey, grizzled and grandad-ish, but I'm not much concerned about that.
I've been happily podgy for a fair while now, with apparently no great psychological need to own a one-pack, much less a six. I have no great aspiration to live until I'm 100 (with my pension, you wouldn't either). So why get off the sofa at all?
Perhaps I want to try and find out whether I'd feel better being someone else. Or rather, whether I'd get on better being who I once was.
Tony Lawrence Mark I was fit, sporty, driven, competitive - and ridiculously young, of course. At least, that's how I remember him, my rose-tinted spectacles may be playing a trick. Tony Lawrence Mark II I've already told you about - a satisfied sofa-bound snacker.
Perhaps I've just watched too many self-improvement television programmes (while, of course, cramming down the odd packet of crisps or three, washed down by two cans of lager).
It's recently occured to me that there are two diametrically-opposed industries after our money - the gym-organic-food-sports-drinks-purified-water brigade, and the snacks-booze--tobacco-be-satisfied-with-who-you-are bunch. And they seem to get more than their fair share of air time.
So perhaps that is my main resolution - to discover who's telling me the truth, those arguing that physical health and fitness and longevity equal happiness, or those that maintain the key is self-knowledge and psychological and emotional contentment.
This, surely is the nub. Will I, by getting fitter and eating well, feel so very much better, from the minute I wake to the minute I slumber, that I will gladly give up morning profiteroles and early-evening Merlot for good? People always tell me that diet and excercise are fundamental to well-being. But they often seem to be smoking or eating chocolate cake as they say it. I mean, if it's really true, why do nurses always smoke. And why are the pubs always full?
So that's my main resolution. It's not easily measurable, I suppose, but the weight loss will be. Here goes.
Heck. Too much serious thinking for one morning. Time for a raw carrot and a glass of water.
Thus my main resolution for 2009 will be to... to... to...
Actually, this is rather more difficult than I thought. I'm with Big Frank on this (see comment, January 7). You think of one thing and it leads to another. It proliferates catholically. One minute you're thinking about spending more time with your family and the next you're musing over the very nature of human happiness. My nephew Towering Andrew made the point to me in a recent email that simplicity is the key to a good resolution. I find myself caught in a multi-facted, self-perpetuating chain reaction.
The initial idea seemed simple enough. My main resolution for 2009 will be to return to my 1989 weight. There you have it. Short and to the point. I was trundling my way through the odd mini-triathlon at the time and somehow got down to 11st 7lbs. I was at my fittest. I am now 13st 4lbs - well, I was yesterday (I seem to range from anything to 13st-13st 10lb) - and at my fattest.
The trouble began, however, when I gave myself time to reflect. How did I intend to achieve this weight loss? And, more unsettlingly, why bother with such a New-Year-resolution-cliche in the first place?
My method, I decided, should involve the gym (10 minutes yomp away), more walking about town, and proper eating and drinking. That led to a visit to see one of the gym trainers last week, which in turn spawned sub-resolution (i) - three 45-minute visits to the gym a week, plus two 30-minute home strecthing sessions, (ii) walk to school and back each day (2.4 miles for Seven-Year-Old-She-Devil, 4.8 miles for me) (iii) walk to the shops (0.6 miles away) (iv) buy a book on nutrition and learn what I should be eating and why.
You see what I mean about proliferation?
The book's now arrived, incidentally, leading to (v) drink water whenever I feel tempted by the sweet cupboard (vi) breakfast like a king, lunch like a queen, dinner like a pauper (vii) cut down (cut out altogether?) on alcohol, confectionery, ice cream and pastry.
And what about my motives?
I'm not really sure I can answer that. I had my mid-life crisis at 40 but I'm pretty sure that ended last year (see "Hacked Off" on Amazon - apologies about the plug). I may be turning 50 this year, grey, grizzled and grandad-ish, but I'm not much concerned about that.
I've been happily podgy for a fair while now, with apparently no great psychological need to own a one-pack, much less a six. I have no great aspiration to live until I'm 100 (with my pension, you wouldn't either). So why get off the sofa at all?
Perhaps I want to try and find out whether I'd feel better being someone else. Or rather, whether I'd get on better being who I once was.
Tony Lawrence Mark I was fit, sporty, driven, competitive - and ridiculously young, of course. At least, that's how I remember him, my rose-tinted spectacles may be playing a trick. Tony Lawrence Mark II I've already told you about - a satisfied sofa-bound snacker.
Perhaps I've just watched too many self-improvement television programmes (while, of course, cramming down the odd packet of crisps or three, washed down by two cans of lager).
It's recently occured to me that there are two diametrically-opposed industries after our money - the gym-organic-food-sports-drinks-purified-water brigade, and the snacks-booze--tobacco-be-satisfied-with-who-you-are bunch. And they seem to get more than their fair share of air time.
So perhaps that is my main resolution - to discover who's telling me the truth, those arguing that physical health and fitness and longevity equal happiness, or those that maintain the key is self-knowledge and psychological and emotional contentment.
This, surely is the nub. Will I, by getting fitter and eating well, feel so very much better, from the minute I wake to the minute I slumber, that I will gladly give up morning profiteroles and early-evening Merlot for good? People always tell me that diet and excercise are fundamental to well-being. But they often seem to be smoking or eating chocolate cake as they say it. I mean, if it's really true, why do nurses always smoke. And why are the pubs always full?
So that's my main resolution. It's not easily measurable, I suppose, but the weight loss will be. Here goes.
Heck. Too much serious thinking for one morning. Time for a raw carrot and a glass of water.
Wretched Roy stunned by injury setback
Day 7, Wednesday, January 7, 10pm: TRSNYRC has been stunned by an injury crisis to one of its key players.
Midfield general Roy has been crocked by an ankle problem and has had to put off the start of his key 2009 resolution. Nobody quite knows what that resolution involves, not even Roy's physio, but it is believed to involve some sort of physical excercise.
"I'm still up for it but this will produce a slight delay," moaned the sofa-bound playmaker.
It has not been a good start to the year for Roy. Only a few days before, he and his family were watching "Return of the Jedi". When Darth Vader is unmasked during the film's finale, revealing the mutilated remains of his face, one of his daughters piped up: "He looks like Daddy! He looks like Daddy!"
Worse still for our star striker, Roy has himself spotted the resemblance. The truth, apparently, can sometimes hurt more than a dodgy ankle.
Midfield general Roy has been crocked by an ankle problem and has had to put off the start of his key 2009 resolution. Nobody quite knows what that resolution involves, not even Roy's physio, but it is believed to involve some sort of physical excercise.
"I'm still up for it but this will produce a slight delay," moaned the sofa-bound playmaker.
It has not been a good start to the year for Roy. Only a few days before, he and his family were watching "Return of the Jedi". When Darth Vader is unmasked during the film's finale, revealing the mutilated remains of his face, one of his daughters piped up: "He looks like Daddy! He looks like Daddy!"
Worse still for our star striker, Roy has himself spotted the resemblance. The truth, apparently, can sometimes hurt more than a dodgy ankle.
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