I went downstairs in my running gear at 6:45 this morning. Just before reaching the door, I picked up a copy of The Guardian and started to read Steve Cram’s piece about Paula Radcliffe. Eventually, the drifting smell of fried bacon hit my nostrils, and that was it. Instead of running, I had a bowl of fruit and a yoghurt. Sadly, it didn’t stop there. Here comes a plate of egg-on-toast, beans-on-toast and sausages. And here’s more toast and jam and a croissant. Over my second cup of mocha, I decided that perhaps I wouldn’t run this morning after all.
Pathetic performance.
As a kind of penance, I visited the supermarket at lunchtime to stock the small greengrocery I am constructing under my desk. This subtabular project gives me something to do when I need a diversion from the reality that occasionally threatens to appear on top of the desk. Doesn’t happen too often, fortunately.
So I spent all afternoon on the frugivorous Antonio diet. But. But then 6 o’clock arrived and I was hit by a nutritional exocet. Five bars of chocolate. It was supposed to be only 4, but the machine gave me two Flytes instead of one. It seemed over-saintly to post one back to the operator of the machine, so I had to eat it. You can see how misfortune forces me into bad dietary habits.
Worse was to come.
An hour or two later we set off to watch the Leeds – Huddersfield match, a throbbing cup tie between two local rivals, played in front of 30,000 baying Yorkshiremen. I invited along three pukka Indian guys I work with. It was their first experience of a real football match, and they were overwhelmed by the noise and the excitement of it all. It seemed only right to discuss the experience over a few beers and an extensive curry after the game.
I felt so heavy when I went to bed that I decided that should I fall out of bed in the night, the weight/velocity/distance-to-floor ratio would send me crashing through all 9 floors of the hotel.
I consoled myself with the thought that at least I’d be first in the queue for breakfast.
