It’s Saturday morning, I’ve been to boxing, I’ve had a shower and now I’m eating a crumpet. I always forget how delicious crumpets are.
What I should be doing, of course, is tucking into some poached eggs and a protein shake to fuel my broken muscles but, you know….crumpets.
I’m not sure I should be eating crumpets anyway because I’m on Lent. I’ve given up all the usual stuff (cakes, biscuits, puddings, crisps etc.). It’s tough but it’s not as tough as last year’s Lent, when I banned ALL sugar, including fruit and hidden sugars in bread, rice, pasta, sauces etc..
My thinking is that crumpets are technically air.
I’ve thrown something else into the Lent package this year, just to temper my latent Catholic guilt. I’ve swapped full-sized dinner plates for side plates. It’s a nifty way to prevent overeating on certain meals, like pasta, which I have an endless appetite for. Heaven for me would be a swimming pool-load of my mum’s macaroni cheese, with a crispy top, served up with a giant mound of boulder-sized garlic bread.
No half marathon
In other news: I’m not doing the Eastbourne Half Marathon tomorrow. I said last year that I didn’t want to do it again, so it’s no surprise but I still feel weirdly guilty that I’m not going to be at the start line in the morning. Last year it was the fourth time I’d plodded that 13.1 mile course and because I weed myself on the fourth mile and cried on the twelfth, I just didn’t fancy it this year.
We’re going to go for a shorter run somewhere else tomorrow instead, so we don’t have to feel too bad about ourselves.
No novel writing
I haven’t written any of my story since the end of last year.
The problem is, I became obsessed. It was all I wanted to do: all I felt I should do. I avoided making weekend plans so I could get up at 7 am and write until late at night. I thought it was the most important thing in the world to keep writing. I cared more about my novel than I did about my wedding, or anything else that happened in my real life (I just asked my husband if he minded me writing that and he said nope).
This would all be perfectly fine, commendable even, if I’d come out the other end wielding a masterpiece. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I just spent a lot of time writing a lot of shit.
I have pages and pages of shit now.
That’s what I did with 2017.
I’m not saying it was a waste of time because I really enjoyed it, at the time. I wouldn’t have had it any other way. And maybe the more shit I write, the closer I’ll get to creating something that’s not as shit.
This year I’ve become a receptacle. I am a knowledge sponge. I’m reading a lot, exploring different mediums, broadening my horizons. I’m playing video games. I recently completed Grand Theft Auto 5 and now I’m playing Dragon Age: Inquisition. That counts as research, right?
I think I might want to write a script for a video game. It would be a mixture of GTA, The Sims, and Monkey Island.
I’ve got a tummy ache now. I think it’s the crumpet.