I’ve a free weekend for the first time since about 1978. I’m quite excited about the prospect of a whole Sunday of nowhere to be and nobody to have to talk to (that’s not an invitation for my phone to ring off the bloody hook thank you).
I’ve no work to be at, no social engagements to grudgingly attend and no Mrs Fabulous around due to her gallivanting off somewhere and her own work commitments getting in the way of our usual weekend lardarsing in bed playing tents with Tucker (not a euphemism). I miss her this morning. I’ve taken to tidying the icons on my phone for entertainment and later am planning to clean the oven with the scary Oven Pride oven cleaning kit, purchased when I was in a good mood in August and which has lurked in the cupboard under the sink ever since, since neither the good mood nor the motivation have made a reappearance.
The weather will undoubtedly thwart my dog walking plans as he hates rain as much as I do and knows he’ll be forced to wear the dog coat of humiliation, the sight of which sends him scurrying under the bed. I was kinda looking forward to a good March round the parish looking for houses with Christmas trees up so I could scowl and feel superior about my own treeless window.
Actually fuck it; I might put the tree up next week because as soon as Christmas Day arrives I’ll be like “oh for fucksake can we take that fucking tree down? It’s doing my tits in” because by then I’ll be extremely crabbit with lack of sugar, carbs and fat and they’ll be waiting for my head to spin round on its axis like Regan in the Exorcist which is a scene that everyone quotes despite not having actually seen the film, including my bad self.
Yes, as if things weren’t bad enough – relative obviously to all the bad things going on in the world -I’m dieting for daughter number 2’s Big Day IN FOUR WEEKS and I’m so hungry that when I look at Tucker I swear I see him in a hotdog bun with a line of mustard atop his back. I’m turning into Homer Simpson. I’m also turning into a diet bore and the kind of person who feels guilty if they eat 10g more cabbage than their daily allowance. I also fleetingly wondered if it would be a good idea to carry a chicken stock cube around with me so I could occasionally lick it if the going got tough. Jesus wept.
Granted, I’ve cut it fine with regards to fat reduction but I’ve been so busy eating all the crisps and cakes I didn’t have time.
I’m not one for motivational talk; I find nothing more demotivating than a motivational quote, preferring instead to browse the All Saints website admiring all the “Here’s what you could’ve worn if you hadn’t been such a lazy arse and had stopped eating pastry” droopy, asymmetric, muted-coloured gorgeousness therein.
Being a feeder, it’s breaking my heart to have to suggest “there’s half a jar of beetroot in the fridge?” when loved ones arrive expecting a lovely home cooked tea but I can’t be trusted to have real food in the house. I fully appreciate the first-worldness of this problem.
What are you doing with your Sunday? Give me some Sunday inspo.