It’s arrived. Chronicles, the first volume of Bob Dylan’s autobiography – a book that no one seemed to know was even in the pipeline until the book appeared in the shops on Tuesday.
I blame and thank Dylan for most directions my life took. Blame for the bad decisions, thanks for the good ones.
I took this book out of the Amazon packaging and gazed at the cover for a while. Eventually I got to the first page, and started reading the first line. Leeds. The 6th word in Dylan’s autobiography is Leeds. I had to close the book at that point and think about this. It’s as far as I’ve got so far. 6 words.
I’ve enjoyed a pleasant, orderly day, despite the perplexing first half line of Dylan’s book. A visit from the in-laws, an afternoon watching England beat Wales, and a good run this evening. That’s 7 runs in 8 days. Things are getting back on track.
Getting back on track? Have they ever really been on track? Anyway, I’m making a special effort this time. No alcohol for a week now, and a different attitude towards food. I’m not kidding myself that I’m on another diet. I’m taking a new approach. Avoiding booze is the only hardline measure. I’ve decided to take a holistic approach. Giving myself very moderate targets for weight loss. But thinking of it as a long-term project. Small but steady decrements. Avoiding chocolate and alcohol and peanuts and crisps: my four terrible weaknesses, but apart from that, not getting too obsessive about food. The thing about the terrible four is that I don’t care too much about not consuming them, but if I do, I want more of them.
So today I’ve been eating home-made bread, and enjoying a decent spag bol for lunch. The plan is that running will take care of the rest. And so far, it’s working. This week my average weight is two pounds less than the average for last week.
I managed to get out for my run just before it got dark this evening. After a week of pitch-black plods, I needed some daylight to see what it was I’d been running past these last few days. One of the village pubs has closed, I see. The house by the old fire station has an impressive vine, heavy with yellowy, muscat-looking grapes. The field opposite has a dozen pleased-with-themselves racehorses. I miss all these things in the dark. But I wouldn’t pass up the chance of running early in the morning, when I can see nothing. It’s the very invisibility of the world that’s part of the appeal. The knowledge that it’s all there, somewhere, behind the curtain of night, is tantalising.
Talking of which, I’m off to bed with Bob Dylan. I have to find out what comes after Leeds.
I’ll keep you posted.
