I’m back in Ireland. Two months of full-time work has left me feeling self-satisfied and exhausted. I’m happy to be back – supermarkets are comfortingly predictable, bathroom fittings don’t come with electric engines, I’m allowed to wear shoes indoors and it’s nice to see friends and family too.
I went back into college on Tuesday, to the exciting news that a new desk shall be readied for me, right in the heart of the department. A desk of my own. I’m going to have to think carefully about how I’ll personalise it: spots or stripes? Bold primary colours or a mix of shades of one colour? I had a lovely (and completely fruitless) meeting with my supervisor during which I agreed heartily when he suggested I keep my nose to the grindstone between now and Christmas. Then he told me about my new desk and I got distracted.
I’d barely been in Dublin at all when I made my way down to Cork for a 48-hour flying visit. It turned into five full days. For the first two days I was there, my parents disappeared to a retreat without telling me, and my brother was in Kerry. I managed to see about 50% of the family members I’d planned to see. Also, my nephew was three. In their very short lives, my niece and nephews have managed to squeeze in eight birthdays. I hadn’t been to a single one until Sunday. So I stayed for a while extra. As well as this, my own dilly-dallying kept me in Cork 24 hours longer than I expected.
At the birthday party I learned: 1) Once everyone has a balloon of the right colour, then the size of the balloon each child has becomes a fractious issue. 2) While pictures of flying saucers are easier to draw, you’re better off drawing a helicopter, as it’s much more likely to get noticed. 3) If one child has it, another wants it. (Solve that one and you’ll have the key to world peace too, and a slot on the Oprah Winfrey Network.) 4) The time during a party where the child watches his mother and auntie assemble a present is much longer than the time during which the child will actually play with the present. 5) Playmobil police stations come with a choice of US or Canadian flags.
Anyway, it’s time to remember Project Connor. Deprived of my fancy weighing scales, I haven’t weighed myself since I left for France, nine long weeks ago. I followed a diet for about 10 days of those nine weeks, so I’m not expecting any miracles.
Measurements: all up, but not a great deal.
Neck: 17.75 inches/45.6 cm (up)
Arm: 16 inches/ 40.8 cm (up)
Chest: 49.75 inches/ 126.4cm (up)
Waist: 55.5 inches/ 140.7 cm (up a lot)
Thigh: 27.75 inches/ 70.6 cm (down – still haven’t found a reliable way of measuring this)
Weight: 22 stone 8 lbs/ 316 lbs/ 143.3 kg. That’s me up 8 pounds or 3.6 kilos.
BMI is 47.9 and body fat is 9 stone 6.75 lbs or 42%.
Project Connor has been around for almost 18 months. In that time, I have lost a grand total of five and three quarter pounds. That’s rubbish. Really rubbish.
It’s September. And it’s time for new starts. I’m starting again on Wednesday. I’m going to give my meat’n’beans diet another go. It’s its last chance.
I’m also going to continue the good work on exercise I started in Cambridge.
I’ll come up with some realistic goals soon and update then.
I’m also putting my nose to the grindstone college-wise.
I’m once again Connor the Resolution-maker, but please, please, Holy God, not Connor the Resolution-breaker.