My new routine entails circuit training at Newlyn gym on Monday nights, football with the lads on Tuesday nights and boxing training at Newlyn on Wednesdays. By Thursday I can barely move but I know that I have worked hard enough to justify a liver-testing shedload of alcohol. However, being a man who likes to eschew the bad things in life I steer well clear of indulgence and instead walk my hounds for a very long time, thus easing my exhausted limbs into readiness for a trip to the gym again on Friday. Come the weekend, it is time to relax, but I find this difficult so instead I go round being all tense and difficult, thus burning off yet more weight, all of which can so easily be put back on by tucking into a chunk of finest cheddar accompanied by a flagon of port.
This is life, my life, a life of moderation and calm, of emotion recollected in insanity, as Wordsworth might have said, had he had a screw loose, but he didn't, he was a sensible chap and certainly not the type to exercise to excess at the same time as eating and drinking to even greater excess in the belief that at least by so doing one does not become quite as unfit and antediluvian as one could.
Yes, eagle-eyed observers are right: I am playing football again. Last week I even scored, not once but twice. My left leg worked and albeit that I can't run very fast, or very far, or even at all, I proved the truth of the old adage: form is temporary, delusions of grandeur are forever.
Onwards, in hope of surf, I march (yes, I've even had a few waves lately). Truth be told I am optimistic that my neck has at last settled down. I hereby touch wood with the embrace of the desperate.
(The title of this post comes from a line in Bulgakov's The Heart of a Dog. Who knows why I put it there but what is certain is that Saturday night's boxing and kickboxing show at PZ leisure centre, hosted by Pure Class of Newlyn gym, was excellent. Well done to all involved and especially Zoe Mason, who came through a tough fight with courage and a deserved triumph.)
