I've also since decided to quit drinking for a while. Quitting smoking (quit quitting, and being serious about it) is one thing, but after a few glasses of wine it becomes a new beast.
A beast that is almost impossible to say no to. Trying not to smoke while drinking is torture for me. I want to claw my own eyes out using the stem of a wineglass. Not smoking while drinking turns a perfectly pleasant afternoon down the pub with friends into a miserable all-encompassing trip directly up Satan's asshole.
It's just awful, and takes all the relaxation out of drinking. A sport for which it was originally intended, I believe.
So I'll be not drinking, and therefore not smoking, for a little while. Until I have a handle on this bastard of an addiction.
Not drinking in a nation filled with pissheads is one helluva a challenge in itself, especially in the summer. These people live for the next pub visit, trust me. "Sunny out? Let's go to the pub. Obviously." "Oh, it's raining. Better go to the pub then." "What shall we do? I'm so bored. I know - let's go to the pub?"
There's a pub on every corner of every English street for a reason. This is a nation of Olympic boozers. What shall I do? Don't suggest to me that I should go to a fucking museum or gallery on a Friday night, OK. That's fine for a Sunday afternoon or when I'm not nursing a hangover the next day.
Late night shopping would be a more "me" suggestion, and while I am saving on approximately £30 per boozy sesh, that's not going to pay for that Mulberry hand piece.
Anyway, one day at a time. Tonight I'm going to a picnic in Regents Park with a whole bunch of people from work. Sun goes down after 9, and given I can't stand outside without breaking into a freaking heat rash - I have become a Brit - It'll be mineral water for me, and if I'm a good girl, with a dash of elderflower.
To be honest, I'm really just moaning again. It's the heat rash. 28 degrees is just a bit hot for me. I've acclimatised. Direct sunlight, in theory is sweeter than Haagen Dazs, but in reality just makes me clammy and burny.
Clean living. I'm actually very excited to be on track to healthy and skinny again - nice skin, a few kilos off, white teeth, being able to climb stairs without an oxygen machine trailing behind me, that kind of thing.
Also, as I left for work today, something extraordinary happened. I got all these butterfly things in the pit of my stomach. Could it be the excessive amounts of green veg I've been slipping past my cake hole?
No. It's actual excitement. There's something in the air now, and it's more tangible than the stench of armpits. It's the Olympics, and for some reason I'm suddenly fucking excited. Ignore yesterday's post.
PS: Update on my attempting to read Fifty Shades of Grey. Honestly? Fifty Shades of GAY. Or more diplomatically, Fifty Shades of Just OK.
I got halfway through and found myself to be...bored. I started henceforth to snack on the pages. Plot is full of 'smouldering grey eyes' and feather dusting. I'm just hungry all the time, so while the pages were lacking any real meat, they did hold some fibre.