I’ve several blog post drafts in various states of draftness but I interrupt this boring piece of news which has done nobody any good whatsoever or enriched anyone’s Friday morning to tell you about my Fitbit stats.
I’m homeward bound today after three days of overzealous Fitbit activity monitoring. It seems I’ve had a total of nine hours actual sleep since Tuesday despite the 27 miles I’ve (allegedly) stomped round Paris and despite the foolhardy over-consumption of steak frites and white wine.
Of course, had it not been for the aforementioned Fitbit (Fatbutt?) stats obsession I’d’ve been none the wiser about my 227 minutes of restlessness during my 239 minute “sleep” but it does paint a worrying picture, does it not?
I’ll bet doctors’ surgeries are overwhelmed with hypochondriac, middle aged fannies like me marching into their surgeries waving their Fitbit apps around, citing their sleep reports as evidence that something is terribly, terribly wrong and demanding referrals to sleep clinics. I won’t be happy until I can find an ailment I can pin ALL my random symptoms on.
The time I’ve spent in Paris not sleeping the non-sleep of the insomniac has of course been very pleasant thank you very much. This includes sitting on the apartment balcony naked from the waist down, taking the air (and the odd Marlboro Light) allowing the curse of the fat thighed woman – the chub rub – to calm the fuck down.
Balcony sitting also afforded me the opportunity to perv over the neighbour’s rabbits, much to Les’s annoyance: “Will you STOP looking at the wee rabbits?! You can’t have them. If I wake up and there’s a rabbit in the bed I’ll be very angry”. But that just made me look wistfully through that crack even more.
Au revoir les lapins du (de?) Paris. Bonjour my own bed and more Fitbit sleep pattern (or lack thereof) obsessiveness.
Fuller and illustrated report to follow if I can be arsed revisiting and revising all the bloody drafts.