Project Connor’s been on tour for the last few days. I’ve been in the Real Capital, the Beautiful City, that Jewel of the Atlantic known to many as Cork, and to the lucky few as “home”.
I don’t know what comes over me when I visit home. My dad asked me if I was on a diet. The obvious answer would have been quite simple. It would in fact have only consisted of one word, which would have been “yes”. However, my mind went doolally.
Instead of “yes”, I said “kind of”.
What the hell did that mean? I was committed to 2500 calories a day. I was faithfully noting it all down in my little notebook. I’m weighing myself tomorrow. In what way is that a “kind of” diet? What’s wrong with me?
Of course, Dad wasn’t happy with the answer “kind of”. You can’t be “kind of” on a diet. It’s like being “kind of” twenty-nine years’ old. Or “kind of” pregnant. You’re either pregnant or you’re not. It’s equally impossible to say you’re “kind of” dead or “kind of” fabulous.
He asked for clarification. I said that I would be starting my diet on Monday.
What possessed me? Did I forget that I am committed to being 18 stone by Christmas? That I’m doing a bloody marathon in six weeks time? Double-you. Tea. Eff?
So Project Connor has had a three day hiatus, of kitkats, twixes, pizzas, chips, sausages, rashers and general slovenliness.
I am now absolutely exhausted. My arteries are clogged. My lungs are chock-full of Philip Morris’s finest nicotine. I am (and I know this is a woman’s word, but I’m secure enough in my masculinity to use it) bloated. I’m having a nice lie-down now and I’m going to bed. I’ll still weigh in tomorrow, but I’m hoping that walking for a few hours tomorrow will unbloat me in time for my weigh-in.