I am now less than a week away from being 39 years old.
As those of you my age, or older, may already know, the passing of time comes as quite a shock every now and again. There are moments in each of our lives where we think: "Where the fuck did that go?!"
Well, go it did.
I am still in the throes of some severe back pain, which, I will admit, hasn't been helped by my own actions. I am convinced that my prolapsed discs and the associated pain that I have suffered are entirely linked to the fact that in the last few years I have become as large as I have ever been.
I recently topped out at 18 st 12 lbs (263 lbs/119.2 kg). Looking down, I no longer see feet. I see 42" waist jeans.
It's safe to say that depression was slowly creeping in and adding to my pain-fueled lethargy. As is often the case with weight gain and depression, people comfort eat. A lot. Which only adds to your weight gain and thus begins the sprial where a lot of people's health starts to circle the drain.
Not for me - I was eating some comfort foods, but complete inactivity was what was putting pounds on me.
After one very nice Chinese take away meal with the missus, I felt like my heart was going to seize. The food tasted great, but the enjoyment from the meal was completely gone.
And that was my moment. My 'enough is enough' moment. When something like that stops being enjoyable, then the incentive to change it becomes the only other thing left.
Thankfully, I have a very understanding and caring missus who is happy with the idea of shedding a few pounds herself.
Her sister is on a massive health kick and had been extolling the virtues of a diet she had found that was doing all the right things for her - the Keto diet. For those of you that don't know what that is, here's the general gist of it.
The Keto diet works on the principle that if you remove carbs and sugar from your diet, then your body has zero choice in burning fat for energy. The state of 'ketosis' is what you're aiming for and when you hit it, that's when your body is burning the fat off you at an optimal rate.
It works too. I lost over half a stone in the first 10 days. So did the missus.
Sadly, that was where it peaked for me. I don't know if my body just got used to it and plateaued too quickly or if I was doing it wrong, but that was the end of my weight loss.
I stuck it out, from mid-February this year, until about a week ago. That was when I decided that maybe it was time to get back to simple science. I, like the vast majority of you out there, am fully aware that if you burn more calories than you consume, then you will lose weight.
It's not rocket surgery.
My problem is that, after a few years of detrimental office jobs and the compounded effects of inertia on my body, going for a run isn't an option. Actually - a 'health kick' was what prolapsed the discs in my spine so badly last May anyway! I did three 10km jogs in a week and had been trying to jog through the pain, which I mistook as nothing more than a lack of conditioning.
I was wrong, to my great cost. Those 3 jogs have cost me that last year of work and have seen me needing MRIs, physio, spinal injections, untold sleepless nights due to severe pain, a ridiculous array of ineffective painkillers and, of course, yet more weight gain.
Okay - so now you're about up to speed. What I have gotten back is determination. Not sure if this speaks to anything about my character or if it had just gotten to the stage where it was this or the downward spiral was about to accelerate and my subconscious kicked in to arrest it. Who knows?
I was training a few years back and managed to lose 25 lbs in 5 weeks. This was strict calorie controlled eating combined with a decent gym membership. I really went at it hard. However, my running attempts last year have hammered it home that I am not able to do this right now.
When I was training, I found it very useful to use a website called www.myfitnesspal.com. It's a great site that allows you to set goals, track each and every calorie you eat (as long as you can be arsed measuring everything you consume!) and also adjusts your daily food intake/goals when you log exercise.
Since I am now part of the smart phone generation, there is, of course, an app for that. I also found a sister website/app called MapMyFitness, which utilises the GPS features of my iPhone 6 and saves me having to log my training routes manually.
This time round, I have decided not to be such a Muppet about things. My training consists of long walks. These I can manage, but not without considerable pain at times. The way I see it, if I am walking the 10k jogging route from before, then those calories burned will lead to weight loss; will lead to muscle conditioning; will lead to the ability to (eventually) jog or run the same route.
Today is Day 4 of the new training regime. I am happy with my progress, despite twinges in my lower back, and the missus is happy with it too (despite her fatigue!)
I always come on here and promise to be a more prolific blogger and, somehow, it never works out that way. So... I will make this promise: I will try to keep this as up-to-date as I can.
On that note... it's almost time to wake sleeping beauty and drag her out for another long walk. Thank God we don't ever tire of each other's chat!
Friday 24 April 2015
Thursday 26 March 2015
Fluent English speaker has bugger all to say and a million ways to say it...
I am writing this on my very lovely and very shiny new iPad. I have a rather nice laptop. I have a blog, a Twitter account and Facebook profile. I was cleaning out a drawer today and found two extremely nice notebooks that I have never written in. I have a beautiful fountain pen.
The trouble is, that even with all these outlets for creativity, I very often find myself with not a lot to write about.
I have come to the conclusion that there are two main contributing factors for this.
1) I have been unwell for a while and the effects of various painkillers, sleepless nights and being stuck indoors a lot of the time causes creativity to be somewhat stifled.
2) I have a mild fetish for new stationery.
I hope that my health will return, sooner rather than later, but I am not even slightly ashamed of my penchant for stationery items.
The trouble is, that even with all these outlets for creativity, I very often find myself with not a lot to write about.
I have come to the conclusion that there are two main contributing factors for this.
1) I have been unwell for a while and the effects of various painkillers, sleepless nights and being stuck indoors a lot of the time causes creativity to be somewhat stifled.
2) I have a mild fetish for new stationery.
I hope that my health will return, sooner rather than later, but I am not even slightly ashamed of my penchant for stationery items.
Thursday 5 February 2015
How I Won The Last Ever 5 Nations Championship For Scotland
In 1999 the 5 Nations Championship played out its final year before welcoming the Italians and becoming the 6 Nations.
Those among you who like rugby will perhaps be aware that the last ever 5 Nations was won by Scotland. Or, more specifically, by me.
Sit back, relax and let me tell you about my greatest ever sporting achievement.
I moved to London in the late spring/early summer 1998 and by the following year was fairly well settled. I had no idea what I was doing there, except that it had to be a better existence than staying in Edinburgh.
As usual, when the rugby rolled around again, I was very interested in following Scotland's progress, especially as I was now surrounded by Englishmen in the pub whenever I went to watch it.
I was working and living in a bar called the Rose of York in Richmond - just over the river Thames from Twickenham.
It's on the Petersham Road, just at the bottom of the very steep Richmond Hill and immediately adjacent to the rather large Petersham Hotel, which was halfway up the side of said steep hill.
For the weekends I could get off to catch up with friends and watch the rugby, I was out drinking, singing and generally enjoying being a feckless twenty-two-year-old with nothing better to do than shout at a referee through the pub tv.
The Championship went well for both Scotland and England, with the final results undecided by the start of the final weekend. Ireland had their weekend off, Scotland went to Paris on the Saturday to face the French and England were at home to Wales (although it was technically a Wales home game because Cardiff Arms Park had been torn down and the Millennium Stadium was still under construction).
I went out on the Saturday to watch the France v Scotland match. Don't ask me where I was or what happened during the match, because I can't remember a thing about any of it. I only know I watched it with my French-Canadian roommate, Eric. The only thing I remember is that, against all the odds, Scotland beat the French - in Paris!! All Scotland needed now was for the underdog Welsh to beat England at Wembley and the Championship was ours. An unlikely event, but I was keeping the (drunken) faith! If England won, the Championship would have been theirs, despite our heroics in Paris.
By about an hour after the match I was quite drunk, but I had made it back to our room. Eric and I were dancing around and singing and basically having a carry on when Eric heard voices out of the skylight we had for a window.
Our room was on the Richmond Hill side of the pub and, as such, the top of our bedroom wall was barely level with the lawn of the Petersham Hotel.
I lifted Eric up to have a peek out of the skylight. When I put him down again, his eyes were ablaze with mischief. "The England rugby team is up there on the lawn tossing a ball around!"
"Lemme see! Lift me up!" I slurred.
Sure enough, there they all were jogging up and down in their tracksuits and passing a ball back forward on the lawn.
That was all I needed. I broke out into a loud rendition of Flower of Scotland, which I managed about half of before I fell over backwards off of Eric's bed, where I had been standing.
The two of us howled with laughter until Eric said: "Where's your Scotland flag?"
"Oooooh! YES! Lemme find it!" I started rummaging around on my side of the room until I located my Saltire. I tried waving it out of the window, but the edge of the window was just out of arms reach for me, so I stopped and started looking for the best approximation of a flagpole I could find.
One very chunky broom handle later, and I had myself a passable flagpole, albeit a hefty one. I started waving it out of the skylight and singing Flower of Scotland at the top of my lungs. I must have been going for about ten minutes before there was a sharp rapping on the door. When I opened it, there stood my diminutive manager with a face like she was going to shit and stamp in it. "I've just had a phone call from the Petersham Hotel manager, saying that someone is waving a Scotland flag out of the window. Can you take it down, please? It's upsetting the players!"
"Yeah, no worries." I said, through the stifled giggling. Eric was behind the door, laughing his arse off.
I took the flag down and closed the skylight. The manager stormed off and I shut the door.
Since I was still pissed, it took me a moment or two to process what had just happened and then I knew what I had to do. I turned to Eric, who was still not able to stop giggling and said: "Come with me, mate - you're gonna want to see this!"
Still in my Scotland rugby shirt, I stomped out of the room and along the corridor. We made our way through the car park and up the steps in the gardens that lead into the Petersham Hotel's car park.
As I marched for the main entrance, I could see the England team on the lawn, still. I ignored them and barrelled straight up to the main reception desk of this very posh hotel. "Is the manager about?!" I demanded.
The rather pretty young lady behind the desk smirked and said: "Hang on, I'll just get him for you."
When she returned, she was accompanied by a fairly officious looking bald man with an immacualte suit and company tie on. "Is there something I can help you with, sir?" He asked, curtly.
"Has someone just called next door to the Rose of York to complain about a Scotland flag being waved?" I snapped, trying to appear as sober as possible and most likely failing miserably.
"Yes," he said, "that would have been myself."
I said: "I hope you have noted that it has been taken down, yes?"
"Yes." he replied, clearly wondering where the hell this was going.
"I wonder if you would be so kind as to pass on a message to the team for me?" I swayed a little.
"I'll see what I can do sir. What is the message?" He said.
"If one Scotland flag is upsetting them today, what the hell are 40,000 Welsh flags going to do to them tomorrow?!" I turned on my heels, nearly a little too far, and strode out of the hotel with all the haughtiness I could manage.
I don't remember the rest of the Saturday, but I think we went out again to avoid the wrath of the manager.
Eric and I went out in Richmond to watch an absolute classic of match between England and Wales on the Sunday, which a typically dogged Welsh side won with a last-gasp try and a heart-stopping crucial conversion to win the match and hand Scotland the last ever 5 Nations!
The England side that day just didn't seem themselves, despite being at Wembley. They seemed distracted. Rattled, almost. No one in Scotland knew about the secret saboteur next door to the England team hotel, but I am finally claiming the glory that is due me for single-handedly bringing the last Championship we won back to Scotland.
I know the team did the unthinkable in Paris, but without my intervention, it would have been for naught.
I know you can't see me, but right now I am going to stand up and take a bow.
Okay. The people in Costa coffee and looking at me funny.
That Sunday, after the match, Eric and I decided to carry on our drinking binge at a pub up on the hill. We made our way out and up the garden steps into the Petersham Hotel car park. As we went to walk through it and on up the hill, we walked past a BMW with the registration 'B4CKY', which belonged to Neil Back. Propped up against the 4x4 next to his car was a slab of beer.
Eric and I made it as far as the other end of the car before we both turned, without a word, walked back, picked up the beer and legged it up the hill.
I am so very proud of us for not needing to say a word on this matter. I reckon we both clocked it at exactly the same time and knew exactly what to do.
The rest of the night may or may not have been memorable, but I was far too drunk on stolen English beer and stolen English dreams to care.
Those among you who like rugby will perhaps be aware that the last ever 5 Nations was won by Scotland. Or, more specifically, by me.
Sit back, relax and let me tell you about my greatest ever sporting achievement.
I moved to London in the late spring/early summer 1998 and by the following year was fairly well settled. I had no idea what I was doing there, except that it had to be a better existence than staying in Edinburgh.
As usual, when the rugby rolled around again, I was very interested in following Scotland's progress, especially as I was now surrounded by Englishmen in the pub whenever I went to watch it.
I was working and living in a bar called the Rose of York in Richmond - just over the river Thames from Twickenham.
It's on the Petersham Road, just at the bottom of the very steep Richmond Hill and immediately adjacent to the rather large Petersham Hotel, which was halfway up the side of said steep hill.
For the weekends I could get off to catch up with friends and watch the rugby, I was out drinking, singing and generally enjoying being a feckless twenty-two-year-old with nothing better to do than shout at a referee through the pub tv.
The Championship went well for both Scotland and England, with the final results undecided by the start of the final weekend. Ireland had their weekend off, Scotland went to Paris on the Saturday to face the French and England were at home to Wales (although it was technically a Wales home game because Cardiff Arms Park had been torn down and the Millennium Stadium was still under construction).
I went out on the Saturday to watch the France v Scotland match. Don't ask me where I was or what happened during the match, because I can't remember a thing about any of it. I only know I watched it with my French-Canadian roommate, Eric. The only thing I remember is that, against all the odds, Scotland beat the French - in Paris!! All Scotland needed now was for the underdog Welsh to beat England at Wembley and the Championship was ours. An unlikely event, but I was keeping the (drunken) faith! If England won, the Championship would have been theirs, despite our heroics in Paris.
By about an hour after the match I was quite drunk, but I had made it back to our room. Eric and I were dancing around and singing and basically having a carry on when Eric heard voices out of the skylight we had for a window.
Our room was on the Richmond Hill side of the pub and, as such, the top of our bedroom wall was barely level with the lawn of the Petersham Hotel.
I lifted Eric up to have a peek out of the skylight. When I put him down again, his eyes were ablaze with mischief. "The England rugby team is up there on the lawn tossing a ball around!"
"Lemme see! Lift me up!" I slurred.
Sure enough, there they all were jogging up and down in their tracksuits and passing a ball back forward on the lawn.
That was all I needed. I broke out into a loud rendition of Flower of Scotland, which I managed about half of before I fell over backwards off of Eric's bed, where I had been standing.
The two of us howled with laughter until Eric said: "Where's your Scotland flag?"
"Oooooh! YES! Lemme find it!" I started rummaging around on my side of the room until I located my Saltire. I tried waving it out of the window, but the edge of the window was just out of arms reach for me, so I stopped and started looking for the best approximation of a flagpole I could find.
One very chunky broom handle later, and I had myself a passable flagpole, albeit a hefty one. I started waving it out of the skylight and singing Flower of Scotland at the top of my lungs. I must have been going for about ten minutes before there was a sharp rapping on the door. When I opened it, there stood my diminutive manager with a face like she was going to shit and stamp in it. "I've just had a phone call from the Petersham Hotel manager, saying that someone is waving a Scotland flag out of the window. Can you take it down, please? It's upsetting the players!"
"Yeah, no worries." I said, through the stifled giggling. Eric was behind the door, laughing his arse off.
I took the flag down and closed the skylight. The manager stormed off and I shut the door.
Since I was still pissed, it took me a moment or two to process what had just happened and then I knew what I had to do. I turned to Eric, who was still not able to stop giggling and said: "Come with me, mate - you're gonna want to see this!"
Still in my Scotland rugby shirt, I stomped out of the room and along the corridor. We made our way through the car park and up the steps in the gardens that lead into the Petersham Hotel's car park.
As I marched for the main entrance, I could see the England team on the lawn, still. I ignored them and barrelled straight up to the main reception desk of this very posh hotel. "Is the manager about?!" I demanded.
The rather pretty young lady behind the desk smirked and said: "Hang on, I'll just get him for you."
When she returned, she was accompanied by a fairly officious looking bald man with an immacualte suit and company tie on. "Is there something I can help you with, sir?" He asked, curtly.
"Has someone just called next door to the Rose of York to complain about a Scotland flag being waved?" I snapped, trying to appear as sober as possible and most likely failing miserably.
"Yes," he said, "that would have been myself."
I said: "I hope you have noted that it has been taken down, yes?"
"Yes." he replied, clearly wondering where the hell this was going.
"I wonder if you would be so kind as to pass on a message to the team for me?" I swayed a little.
"I'll see what I can do sir. What is the message?" He said.
"If one Scotland flag is upsetting them today, what the hell are 40,000 Welsh flags going to do to them tomorrow?!" I turned on my heels, nearly a little too far, and strode out of the hotel with all the haughtiness I could manage.
I don't remember the rest of the Saturday, but I think we went out again to avoid the wrath of the manager.
Eric and I went out in Richmond to watch an absolute classic of match between England and Wales on the Sunday, which a typically dogged Welsh side won with a last-gasp try and a heart-stopping crucial conversion to win the match and hand Scotland the last ever 5 Nations!
The England side that day just didn't seem themselves, despite being at Wembley. They seemed distracted. Rattled, almost. No one in Scotland knew about the secret saboteur next door to the England team hotel, but I am finally claiming the glory that is due me for single-handedly bringing the last Championship we won back to Scotland.
I know the team did the unthinkable in Paris, but without my intervention, it would have been for naught.
I know you can't see me, but right now I am going to stand up and take a bow.
Okay. The people in Costa coffee and looking at me funny.
That Sunday, after the match, Eric and I decided to carry on our drinking binge at a pub up on the hill. We made our way out and up the garden steps into the Petersham Hotel car park. As we went to walk through it and on up the hill, we walked past a BMW with the registration 'B4CKY', which belonged to Neil Back. Propped up against the 4x4 next to his car was a slab of beer.
Eric and I made it as far as the other end of the car before we both turned, without a word, walked back, picked up the beer and legged it up the hill.
I am so very proud of us for not needing to say a word on this matter. I reckon we both clocked it at exactly the same time and knew exactly what to do.
The rest of the night may or may not have been memorable, but I was far too drunk on stolen English beer and stolen English dreams to care.
Tuesday 27 January 2015
Last to the party
It doesn't matter what it is... flash trainers, trendy jeans, mobile phones, games consoles, laptops, smart phones, tablets... I was then, and am even now, the last one to get the cool, new thing.
When I was at high school everyone had the Head sports bag for a school bag. I don't remember how much they cost, but I didn't have one until my last year of high school, by which point they were commonplace and not all that cool anymore.
During the same time, everyone who was anyone wore Levi's 501s. Again, I was the last one to have a pair and, by the time I did, I had left school and the people I hung around with were working and had the money for cooler clothes than me, anyway.
My first mobile phone was a hideous Motorola brick from 1995, by which time, my friends had much nicer phones that mine. I got a PlayStation when everyone else was splurging on the PS2; a very nice stereo with multiple cd changer when everyone was switiching to iPod; a laptop when everyone I knew had one half the size and weight and got my first smart phone - the Samsung Galaxy S3 mini - the day before the Samsung Galaxy S5 came out (but most of my friends had an iPhone 5).
Thankfully, it doesn't bother me too much not being able to afford these things when they are shiny, new gadgets or fashions, but I guess what I am trying to say is that if I had the money, then I would probably be one of those people who pre-orders these delightful things.
Is it possible to think of yourself as materialistic when you can wait for things? Or have I just been conditioned into patience through my own fiscal shortcomings?
I don't mind not even having the latest model or shiniest, new item now...
...but, I have thoroughly enjoyed sitting here in a coffee shop, writing this blog post on my iPad Air with the gorgeous keyboard/cover that I got for Christmas. For now, I'm more than contented to be the cat that has gotten some of the cream before it's all gone.
When I was at high school everyone had the Head sports bag for a school bag. I don't remember how much they cost, but I didn't have one until my last year of high school, by which point they were commonplace and not all that cool anymore.
During the same time, everyone who was anyone wore Levi's 501s. Again, I was the last one to have a pair and, by the time I did, I had left school and the people I hung around with were working and had the money for cooler clothes than me, anyway.
My first mobile phone was a hideous Motorola brick from 1995, by which time, my friends had much nicer phones that mine. I got a PlayStation when everyone else was splurging on the PS2; a very nice stereo with multiple cd changer when everyone was switiching to iPod; a laptop when everyone I knew had one half the size and weight and got my first smart phone - the Samsung Galaxy S3 mini - the day before the Samsung Galaxy S5 came out (but most of my friends had an iPhone 5).
Thankfully, it doesn't bother me too much not being able to afford these things when they are shiny, new gadgets or fashions, but I guess what I am trying to say is that if I had the money, then I would probably be one of those people who pre-orders these delightful things.
Is it possible to think of yourself as materialistic when you can wait for things? Or have I just been conditioned into patience through my own fiscal shortcomings?
I don't mind not even having the latest model or shiniest, new item now...
...but, I have thoroughly enjoyed sitting here in a coffee shop, writing this blog post on my iPad Air with the gorgeous keyboard/cover that I got for Christmas. For now, I'm more than contented to be the cat that has gotten some of the cream before it's all gone.
Friday 16 January 2015
Why old people are grumpy
I have finally figured it out. The reason that kids always think old people are grumpy and boring is because they are - everyone knows this.
I have figured out what it is that makes it so difficult to be the same happy person you were when you were a child.
When the 1st of January ticks around, people, usually, are filled with a sense of blessed renewal. Some people have become cynical to this, I know, but for most of us it's the same.
As the year begins, I start to think of what I am going to do and maybe what projects I have coming up. Possibly even who's birthdays are soon. It was this that made me realise why I am not the fun-
loving happy, smiley child I once was.
The answer is anniversaries. Bad ones. Once March begins, so does my annual cycle of things I would rather not have to remember. The anniversary of my Pop dying. The anniversary of my Gran dying. What should have been my wedding anniversary... etc., etc., etc.
As the years go by, our lives get filled with some wonderful memories, but also the events that break our hearts too. The older you get, the more of them there will be.
If you're like me, then each year has some sunny days, a lot of grey days and some truly dark ones. There are people who are good at not thinking of such things or are, at the very least, good at not showing that they have any effect. I'm not one of those and I don't think that your average person in the street is either.
I think that everyone's year gets just that little bit darker as they get older, until you turn into something that barely resembles the child who lived mostly in the sunshine.
I will acknowledge that there are those people for who the light never really leaves them. My Pop, God rest his soul, was one of those. Even well into his eighties you could still see the kid inside and he was a very cheery and pleasant person to be around. Only the leukemia took that from him in the last couple years of his life, but that much is understandable.
This year I am going to try and combat this ever-growing number of dark days by making some very bright and sunny memories. Maybe that way, as I get older, my year will be more happy and bright and I will be able to ward off the darker days ahead.
I have figured out what it is that makes it so difficult to be the same happy person you were when you were a child.
When the 1st of January ticks around, people, usually, are filled with a sense of blessed renewal. Some people have become cynical to this, I know, but for most of us it's the same.
As the year begins, I start to think of what I am going to do and maybe what projects I have coming up. Possibly even who's birthdays are soon. It was this that made me realise why I am not the fun-
loving happy, smiley child I once was.
The answer is anniversaries. Bad ones. Once March begins, so does my annual cycle of things I would rather not have to remember. The anniversary of my Pop dying. The anniversary of my Gran dying. What should have been my wedding anniversary... etc., etc., etc.
As the years go by, our lives get filled with some wonderful memories, but also the events that break our hearts too. The older you get, the more of them there will be.
If you're like me, then each year has some sunny days, a lot of grey days and some truly dark ones. There are people who are good at not thinking of such things or are, at the very least, good at not showing that they have any effect. I'm not one of those and I don't think that your average person in the street is either.
I think that everyone's year gets just that little bit darker as they get older, until you turn into something that barely resembles the child who lived mostly in the sunshine.
I will acknowledge that there are those people for who the light never really leaves them. My Pop, God rest his soul, was one of those. Even well into his eighties you could still see the kid inside and he was a very cheery and pleasant person to be around. Only the leukemia took that from him in the last couple years of his life, but that much is understandable.
This year I am going to try and combat this ever-growing number of dark days by making some very bright and sunny memories. Maybe that way, as I get older, my year will be more happy and bright and I will be able to ward off the darker days ahead.
Thursday 8 January 2015
Doctor Who and the Clunk of Betrayal
I still remember the first time I saw the T.A.R.D.I.S.
There on that forbidden planet.
I knew the possibilities. I knew what could lie within; somehow I just knew.
I already knew all about The Doctor and the adventures he and his time-travelling sidekicks have. In that box of delights.
That's why I recognised the T.A.R.D.I.S. straight away.
That's why I knew I had to have it.
It has been in my possession for some time now, but I have never made it work the way the Doctor does. All it does is take up room in my house.
I have made good use of it, though.
I go in there sometimes.
The missus knows about it, but she doesn't approve if I visit it too often.
Getting in and out is fine, when she's not around... I can sometimes get in there and make a silent exit even if she's in the next room.
Tonight, when I thought she was fast asleep, I got in and out without making a sound, but as I was putting the lid back on, she heard the ceramic 'clunk' and woke up to berate me for yet another visit.
Betrayed, by the box of delights.
There on that forbidden planet.
I knew the possibilities. I knew what could lie within; somehow I just knew.
I already knew all about The Doctor and the adventures he and his time-travelling sidekicks have. In that box of delights.
That's why I recognised the T.A.R.D.I.S. straight away.
That's why I knew I had to have it.
It has been in my possession for some time now, but I have never made it work the way the Doctor does. All it does is take up room in my house.
I have made good use of it, though.
I go in there sometimes.
The missus knows about it, but she doesn't approve if I visit it too often.
Getting in and out is fine, when she's not around... I can sometimes get in there and make a silent exit even if she's in the next room.
Tonight, when I thought she was fast asleep, I got in and out without making a sound, but as I was putting the lid back on, she heard the ceramic 'clunk' and woke up to berate me for yet another visit.
Betrayed, by the box of delights.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)