A bit sick


Reinstating pre-Christmas (or pre-December, if you’re going to stickle about it) moderation has been a big fat fail thus far. 5:2? Not even 6:1 really, unless you drive a tank over the rules and ignore the evening blowout. But yesterday marked the jump-start. Not because I watched Horizon: Fat vs Sugar on iPlayer (which I did on Friday, marvelled at the outcome and resolved to carry on as before) but because yesterday I did something so sickening that food and I are no longer on speakers. All hail the Unquelled Nausea Diet.

Sunshine at last, so I was in the garden, digging out the compost bins and distributing the plumbed yummies around the base of sundry trees and shrubs. Fork it in, I thought, mix it good. And then there was a lump of compost that had to be broken up. Next thing I’m 10 feet away, shouting, jogging about, flapping hands and retching. The lump wasn’t compost. I don’t know what it was – a toad, perhaps? A baby hedgehog? Christ, it could have been an alien in ballet pumps for all I know – buggered if I was going to hang around and find out. Whatever, it pop/crunched and leaked purple goo when I stabbed it with a fork. Discuss.

Aaaaaand feeling sick again. Yay.

Managed to get to a matinee of The Wolf of Wall Street too (what a great new year’s resolution that’s turning out to be!) and spent Saturday evening joking about how that cavalcade of arseholery made me *irony alert* want to jack in my job, sign up for the City and get a gigantic drug habit. Ha ha ha. But the horrible news about Philip Seymour Hoffman – and Ian Thorpe’s depression – makes that maybe not so very funny after all. Ha. Ha. Oh.


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