I think I’m falling down, descending, melting and will soon end up spread out and shaped like one of those little dolls with a rounded base – wibble-wobble. Everything is slipping down into my legs! Pretty soon I won’t be able to get up and walk around.
I think this means I need to get up and walk around now – right now. MOVE IT FATTY! Sometimes the fantasy of me setting off every day for a one-mile walk/stroll/drudge flashes into my head and I nod to myself… yes, I’ll do it. It won’t be so bad, but then I have to go out for something, to the local shops, and slip onto the bus instead of walking the quarter-mile into town!
I think I should be in chains, in jail, imprisoned in a health farm. I need some kind of control device; does Ebay sell torture devices? It’s really just my bed and sofa that need electrifying. Hypnotism from my mountain might help; a nice red ray beamed into my flat every day at the same time would get me up and about.
I think I’m dying. One day I’ll explode and then I’ll be sorry I didn’t exercise and explore the area more – I mean there’s a lovely bench up near the loch; I could easily walk the quarter-mile there and sit all day, then walk back, averting my eyes from MacDonald’s (I don’t really like them anyway – it’s not my thing).
I think I’ll make tomorrow a red-letter day and hop on the scales. It’s a cheap set – what if I break them? Is there a weight limit? There’s a limit on my little kitchen steps and I’m over it, but I defy death and use them anyway.
I think I’m running out of options so am eating all the carbs in the house because I’m a canny Scot who doesn’t want to see anything go to waste; there’s still some mashed potatoes and white flour left (though that’s actually out of date – but who takes any notice of dates?).
I think I’m resigned to my fate. Oh dear.
