I’m eating a 500 ml tub of ice cream. There is a core of rich chocolate fudge sauce running through the middle of the tub. This is surrounded by two different flavours of ice cream and is infiltrated throughout by generous chunks of cookie dough. It has one thousand, one hundred and fifty calories in it. I’m washing it down with an ice cold Club Rock Shandy, because the shop had no Lilt left. The rock shandy has 74% of your recommended daily allowance of sugar.
I know that there is a greater than 90% chance that this tub of ice cream will not make my life better. In fact, given the vast amounts of food I’ve already consumed today, it just brings me one step closer to being the giant exploding man in the Monty Python sketch.
It does taste good, though. Or at least the first three spoonfuls did. After that, it gets a bit more mechanical and vomit-inducing. My hands are all brown and chocolatey now, like a toddler at Easter. Or a gardener.
After the ice cream, I’m more than likely going to have to somehow roll to my bedroom, because I’m unlikely to be able to walk.
But tomorrow will be a new start, won’t it? It’s bound to all be better then.
I am going into college. I recently calculated that I’ve done about six hours of PhD work since June. My funding stops in eleven months. So I’d better get on top of that.
I’m not going to my WeightWatchers weigh-in tomorrow. I can’t have three weight gains three weeks in a row. My self-esteem can’t cope with that. I’m going to make an appointment with the college doctor and have a chat about my options. That’ll be fun. You know, fun like Coldplay are fun.
And I’m returning to swimming tomorrow. I am, of course, terrified. The weekend before last I went for a walk, which was my first deliberate exercise since my last few trips to the swimming pool at the start of August. I haven’t done a thing since.
Tonight, I’m mainly eating ice cream. Tomorrow, I’ll be fabulous again. Honest.