I’m going out with my team this evening. These evenings are always drunken, raucous and very late. I know that once again I’ll be making my excuses around 9 o’clock and heading home. Well, maybe 10 o’clock. It’s at those moments that the boredom really kicks in … I don’t feel jealous of other people eating food or drinking, I just get bored with the whole regime. I’m not good at being told what to do, and it’s then when I feel it most. I’m inclined to think ‘to hell with it!’ and reach for a glass of wine. But that would mean unravelling everything.
I’ve also rather optimistically dug a skipping rope out of my bottom drawer. Strangely enough it’s in almost pristine condition, probably purchased one January in a fit of enthusiasm for a fitter year ahead. Given my utter hatred of gyms, this may be a good option for me if I can motivate myself to do it. It’s currently sitting on my bedroom floor and it looks at me while I’m drying my hair in the morning. I need to get my arse in gear to pick the damn thing up. Maybe tomorrow, eh.