Monday, March 1st

I was forced out of bed at 9am to visit my new doctor’s surgery. Usually I’m happy to get up this early but the weekend had seriously taken its toll. As my mother always says, I’d been burning the candle at both ends. The surgery is the smallest one I’ve ever seen; it should have been called the doctor’s hut. The minimal space made it even more annoying when a Polish baby started crying. I quite like kids but I really wanted to set off the fire extinguisher in the little git’s face. It’s illegal to hit a child but I’ve never read anything about the legal ramifications of firing water at them.

I then went to my now weekly body pump lesson at the gym. The guy who’s in charge is called Andy. He’s a squat, overly enthusiastic Scottish bloke who, doesn’t think he looks like a bellend wearing a Madonna microphone. The sort of bloke who’s zest for life conceals his deep depression at being a professional body pump instructor. Almost everyone in my class is a woman over the age of 30. There is one other bloke: him and me are on, “Hi mate” terms (probably because we are the only 2 people who have 2 testicles and no mic…I’m only assuming he has 2 balls; we don’t shower together yet).

After feeling ‘pumped’ and ‘emasculated’ I strode into Portobello market. I bought far too much stuff. I did that thing where I shopped like I had my car but didn’t; so was carrying an uncomfortably inconvenient amount of gubbins. I also bought fruit from the market. Everyone bangs on about market fruit being better than the supermarket (me being one of them), yet it seems to be injected with something that makes it bruise before you get home and go off in 24 hours. It’s cheap for a reason.
When I got back I started feeling horrendous. It turns out my flatmate, Be (short for Benedict), was sick at work after the Meatball Subway we’d shared the night before. Who knew warm meat from an outdoor Subway vendor in Leicester Square, shared with another man could make you sick? I felt guilty for napping the rest of the afternoon but it was either that or shitting myself. I felt the former less faeces ridden option was the preferred. So my Monday afternoon consisted of sleeping. You can’t do that that in your office job, can you? Or in you van driving job…well in most vehicle based jobs.