Aptly named, for my well-intentioned running yin has collided disasterously with my 24/7 on-site-life yang
No running to mention here in steamy Singapore; just long days and longer nights, time-lag insomnia haunted by cheap movies (Anaconda 3: The Offspring starring David 'The Hoff ' Hasselhoff anyone? Thought not) and in general a whole lotta perspiration goin' on ...
On my daily stroll to the Suntec Exhibition and Convention Centre, across the soon-to-be Singapore F1 circuit, where endless tendrils of lighting truss, like arrow-straight, man-made jungle vine, stretch into the distance in readiness for the high-speed nocturnal carnage, I'm accosted by a giant external TV screen. This electro-blot on the cityscape broadcasts an endlessly recycled loop of advertisements, for films, cars, hairspray and, much to my growing annoyance, Cadbury's chocolate. I have no great passion for chocolate so it's not the brutality of such heartless temptation that upsets me, rather the initially amusing but increasingly irksome children featured on the ad. You know the one - the one with the dancing eyebrows. No? Here's a reminder:
There's a very real chance that at some point in the next few days I'm going to snap, dive into the fast-flowing stream of commuter traffic to plant myself onto the bonnet of a bemused Singaporean vehicle, screaming 'for fucks sake somebody shut that fucking thing off!!!!' It would make me feel better anyway. The ad has more to say about birth control than confectionary.
I've been following the recent Aggers initiative on Twitter - #moobsarehistory and #pectember for those in the know/ saddos like me who tweet. The deluge of enthusiastic support and alleged commitment to these noble causes shown amongst my cohorts in the Twitterverse adds misery to my laconic shame as my midriff expands exponentially and my sorry excuse for runner's legs dwindle and wither. I'm currently very much resembling a beach ball on stilts. No matter; somewhere beneath the tranches of blubber a steel resolve is forming, ready to slice through the abominable abdominal lard and burst forth onto the autumnal Sussex hills in a great explosion of huffing, puffing sweat.
Sadly I'm going to have to sink further towards the bottom of the blubber barrel before I start clawing my way out, wide-eyed and bloody, into the brave new world of semi-fitness.
Another Guinness-and-gin-fuelled trip to the celebrated Raffles Hotel Long Bar awaits. Last night it was an outing to the Pacific Coast Seafood Market, elbow-deep in brow-beadingly hot chilli crab and giant mutant prawns washed down with lashings of ice-cold Tiger beer.
It is, as the popular song from 'Annie' has it, a hard-knock life
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
