Eight weeks until Christmas. Fuuuuucccccc%%%%%! Well at least I can see where the months have gone, with scattered clothes littering the apartment like a crime scene. Bed-Couch-Table. Repeat. With gyms closed and restrictions on exercise outdoors, the nation has pulled together, unanimously, to laugh at Melbourne. The mighty southern city, the only one suffering lockdown in Australia, has itself bonded in unity. We’re a steadfast, supportive team. That is, until the last few weeks when another suburb has another outbreak, delaying freedom again. Then it’s curses, hexes and foul-mouthed tirades all the way! <Am looking at you Northern Suburbs, you bunch of arsehats!>
For the first few weeks I was determined to continue my gym work. I then got injured – a sore right wrist, can you believe. You can complete the rest of that anecdote yourself. I then did nothing for two months. Well, I say nothing, I got fatter and developed lactose sensitivity. Ahh 2020, the gift that keeps on giving! Getting into it again, I’ve been out running. Ohhh the lamentations. I thought I was doing all right, the legs starting to find their stride, upping the pace. I felt I was really motoring! For about fifty metres. Then someone with a tiny gait barely breaking a sweat passed me, and I realised I’m an old man with grey hair, wheezing like I’d swallowed a broken accordion.
After spending months alone, seeing ladies and their Lycra clad bottoms has become shockingly attractive. Clearly their standards have lowered and defences tumbled, as occasionally, just sometimes, I get the eye. This never happens when I’m running - of course, I mean, I’m a fuc*ing fat cave goblin!!! - only when walking. I’m the first to admit there are a vast preponderance of other possibilities, like an astounding number of women with glass eyes. But it’s bizarre. At the moment, if ladies do have the misfortune to stare in my general direction, they would see overgrown hair, sunglasses and a mask. Generally, I’m wearing earphones, so that’s my good-looking, model-worthy ears out of the equation too. Which leaves my forehead. I didn’t think I had a particularly attractive forehead and yet clearly - clearly! - I’m wrong. I’ve effectively become better looking by covering 90% of my face. This is a minor revelation. If anything, I feel my face has been letting me down, performing a disservice to my forehead for years!
In my spare time when not writing the second book and gasping pathetically, I’ve taken up a Digital Photography course from Harvard. Some fantastic facts: yellow can be made from red and green, which is madness but true despite what they teach you about primary colours at school; all colours are made up of infinite additions/subtractions of red, green and blue, and when we look at a colour 90% of its brightness is actually green and red, which is handy as 98% of cones in our eyes are directed at red and green wavelengths; and lastly the reason why you never like photos of yourself is that you’re used to seeing your reverse image in the mirror. What everyone else sees is you normally. So, the theory is, if you take a photo of yourself and flip the image, this is how you really look. Amusingly, whilst you may prefer that image, the people that know you won’t. I have tried it, and it’s still not getting any more favourable. Maybe it needs more flips? 301? No. 302? Nope . . . it’s a workout in itself.
Writing and writing...