Gertsamtkunstwerk

Eat a bit less, move a bit more...

There are so many articles and TV programmes about obesity and what we can do to reduce it, personally society-wide.  I have some thoughts, based upon extensive non-academic reading and personal experience. Neither method is scientific or foolproof; neither method proves anything. However, it's a contribution to a debate.

Everyone knows that the way to lose weight¹ is to eat fewer calories than you expend. 

It's not quite that straightforward, because the body deals with different nutritional elements in different ways. I'm not doing science, but it's probably fair to say that if I am currently eating 2500 calories a day (say) made up largely of vegetables, pulses, fish, dairy and wholemeal bread, and replaced it with 2400 calories of pure sugar, over time I'd lose weight, but before that happened I'd be dead. If I continued to consume 2500 calories by cutting out alcohol, cakes, white pasta and replaced those with more veg, pulses and fish, I think I'd be healthier but I'm not sure I'd lose (much) weight, all other things being equal.

It annoys me when people write in Guardian comments "I reduced the amount of lard I ate and started walking so it's simple and people who don't do that are lazy and stupid". I think that developing insight and demonstrating empathy are easy, so I don't know why they can't!

It's a truism that any sort of weight loss diet is successful for 3 or even 6 months. This therefore doesn't mean that people should pursue the latest fad diet promoted in the media to earn someone a nice little fortune. This is because of novelty and focus. If you start a new hobby, job or relationship, it tends to be the centre of your enthusiasm for a while.

As time progresses, your fervour changes. You might stay in the job or relationship for years, or the hobby becomes a frequent activity. But it's not consuming your attention all the time. If you've been with your partner a long time you spend less time thinking 'he (or she) is utterly marvellous, I hate it when we're apart, I'm the luckiest person alive to be with them' and more time thinking 'what shall we have for dinner tonight, must remember to get the car serviced, we're invited to someone's party at the weekend'.

Or 'stuff' gets in the way - a busy or stressful time at work, a close family/friend hospitalised, a different hobby becoming prominent (eg political activists leading up to an Election, opera fans when their favourite singer's in town, the arrival of better weather for walking/cycling/open swimming).

It's easy to maintain a healthy, calorie reducing diet for a time. Spring and summer - you don't feel a need for so much stodge; cutting out beer is no big deal; it's enjoyable to cook meals from scratch. Hyper-awareness of everything you eat. Then, you go on holiday, it's Christmas, or you've been invited to a series of parties in close succession, and one or two puddings, some more wine, a cheese sauce won't make much difference. Your favourite singer is in town or the Election is imminent, and you have time only to grab take-aways or Ready Meals. And more drink, because of being sociable is nice. You go for a long cycle ride. You deserve cake at the half way point, and fish and chips and cider at the end. Calories eaten on holiday or at Christmas don't count.

You plan your meal: nutritionally balanced, calorie counted. Appetising, delicious. You eat it, but you still don't feel full. I saw something years ago that people with a specific gene mutation have difficulty feeling full even after apparently stuffing themselves. I identified with that. I'm not saying that I have that gene mutation, or even that I feel less full than the average person. But it was a pause for thought - maybe wait 20 minutes before having seconds, extras, pudding.

That's fine when you're feeling good. I'm lucky that I don't have chronic mental illness -  I'm only depressed as a result of an easily identifiable event. But if I'm low with a cold or fed up that things aren't going my way, I find it easy to comfort myself with food. Not necessarily whole packets of Mr Kipling cakes, not nowadays, and I'm not an emotional drinker, but sometimes a cheese sandwich is easier to make than a vegetable soup. So I assume that that is also true for people with clinical depression, especially that which takes a hold or recurs.

Having fibromyalgia, and more especially, chronic fatigue, has the same effect. The sensible voice in your head tells you the benefits of a fish and veg dinner but when you don't have the energy to shop or cook, ordering a pizza delivery is far easier and less draining.

Fibro and CFS affect my ability to move around. So do lots of other medical conditions. Some of them may only be temporary - broken bones, twisted joints - and others may be more entrenched - eg rheumatism, asthma. I know that exercise is good for fibro (but, confusingly, not good for CFS), and I assume that a moderate amount of appropriate gentle exercise is advised for many other medical conditions. Easier said than done.

If you already hurt, why on earth would you do something that hurts even more. Similarly for fatigue. Fear of either becomes a mental block. If you get over that mental block, you're less fit and your exercise session will be shorter and less intense and have fewer benefits than habitual challenging exercise.

I saw a video of some psychopath American personal trainer who yelled at the camera thinking he was refuting everyone's excuses for not working out. It was funny and sad, because he clearly lacked emotional intelligence, and didn't know that not everyone is like him. If your excuse for not working out is that you've kids to look after,  you should work out, because if you die young from not working out your children will suffer. But life doesn't work like that. 'Not working out' is unlikely to kill many people before their kids are old enough to fend for themselves. On the other hand, not attending to the immediate basic needs of children now - supervision, food (and everything else) -  is unconscionable to any decent parent. As humans we make choices, often driven by necessity. If we risk assess, we prioritise imminence and probability over impact. So, yes, if I'm fit and healthy it will lengthen and increase my earning power in decades to come, but if I don't finish this report tonight, I will definitely suffer consequences tomorrow.

Many of us under-estimate what we consume, and over-estimate how active we are. I speak for myself and from observing people. When I go out walking I see people gathering in a central point. I read a walker's blog (she's a retired GP), and she commented that most people don't venture more than a hundred yards from the car park. I saw her point, but felt she was exaggerating for dramatic effect. Until I noticed the same.

On occasion, individuals have valid reasons for only taking a small stroll...indeed what other people do in this respect is not my business. But I think many will  talk of how they went for a walk or took the kids to the park and genuinely believe they are being active.

I filled in a quiz that classified me among the most active third of the population. I reckon that there is a third of people (ie half of those less active than me) who are inactive for very good reasons - age and other mobility limiting medical reasons. But I did wonder about the other half of people who are less active than me. I recognise the constraints of working full-time or longer (plus commute), of child care, of elder care. People with time-consuming hobbies, often contributing to the community, who are far from lazy. But I thought, it's only expecting you to do 150 minutes of moderate exercise a week, or 20ish minutes of brisk walking a day. 

I aim to do 20ish minutes of brisk walking or similar a day, but I know it can sound daunting to people. It's daunting to me, on off days or recovery days. If you don't think you can manage 20, try 10. If not 10, 5 as a starter. I've broken off writing this to do my weights and sit-to-stands in my living room. Actually, I haven't. I'm lying, but you get my point! And, anyway, I know I am more active in March - October, providing it's not raining, so I might not be in the most active third of population.

I live in Inner London so am surrounded by easily accessible public parks and commons, busy enough to make me feel safe. If I lived in the country  half a mile from a public footpath, would I use it if I have to walk down a 60mph bendy road with no footway. It's raining, I leave for work in the dark, come home in the dark, and I'm anxious that the only person I'll meet will be a crazy with a knife looking for a lone female who's gone out walking because some moron in the Guardian comments has declared that people who don't eat a little bit less and move a little bit more are lazy and stupid. 

So, as everyone knows, losing weight just requires a bit of discipline about what you eat and a bit of will power to exercise. So what's the big deal about obesity, it's only a problem for stupid lazy people!

¹ I think I actually mean 'lose fat' because reducing muscle is generally not a good idea; furthermore someone who eats less and moves more may well increase their muscle mass and increase the numbers on their scales. But I'll say 'lose weight' because most people know what it means in a general sense.

The Wandle, after The Storm

What a miserable winter 2013/14 was. I am immensely grateful, living on a hill and inland, I was not affected by floods how many people were. Even so, the seemingly constant heavy rain and strong winds was not conducive to going out. I've blogged about a New Year walk around The City, and a fortuitous stroll along Bournemouth seafront, but other than 2 or 3 pleasant but uneventful walks on Tooting Common, and one to Brockwell Park, these are my only 'going out' since returning from holiday in September.

I took time off sick in February and March. It retrospect it might have been easier to take a full week, rather than a day here, a couple of days there. Something dawned on me in late March - how good I had felt walking through Central Croydon after a work-related meeting, and a similar work-related jaunt to leafy outer suburbs. Both days were bright sunshiny days. One was pretty cold - scarves and gloves - but that mattered less than the brightness of the sun. In short, I am fairly certain I have Seaonally Affective Disorder. I don't want to be pseudo-scientific, and I'm very aware of the power of suggestion, but I have felt so much better since the Spring Equinox.

The odd trip out, in glorious pre-Spring weather, only served to mask the reality of Seasonal Affective Disorder. I've ignored it for too long. I've treated it like hayfever or migraines, afflictions that make me lose several hours every couple of years, but not comparable to people whose lives are devastated by them. Everyone feels a bit down in winter. It's not that I'm depressred, just de-energised, lack-lustre, indifferent, apathetic. And yet, that isn't me in sunshine. I walked three miles, which is nothing really (although three miles of pootling and stopping to admire the view surely requires more energy than yomping across country). I was tired in the evening, and had to leave a birthday party early, but it felt a lot more positive than the world-weariness I had felt for months.

The Wandle never ceases to amaze. I could walk its banks for ever and always see something new. Early on, we detoured into the wheelhouse at Merton Abbey Mills and saw behind the water wheel.

Along the river were scenes of devastation:

     

The sandbags were out by the flats in Ravensbury Park - thankfully, looking unneeded. What a great place they must be to live. Whenever I go past there are always people out enjoying their amazing back gardens, and the kids obviously love living in the woods - even when a kicked football falls dead in a squelchy hidden puddle!

 

Talking of squelchy, the Wetlands were pleasingly wet. According to Wikipedia: 

A wetland is a land area that is saturated with water, either permanently or seasonally, such that it takes on the characteristics of a distinct ecosystem...wetlands consist primarily of hydric soil, which supports aquatic plants.

During the winter, some attention-seeking MP was condemning money spent by the Environment Agency on creating a wetlands in his - admittedly subaquatic - constituency. I sighed big sighs - if the water doesn't go into wetlands, it has to go somewhere else.

 

I got told off by a rather bossy dog woman for wearing the wrong shoes. I was stunned into silence until she had gone. She wore Wellingtons, which are right for her, but they give inadequate support and cushioning for me. It wasn't like I was wearing sandals or PE pumps. I was wearing proper genuine walking boots, Gore-Tex from an outdoors shop. They did me just fine. Yes, they're suede, but I can't help being innately stylish. I pass judgement about people's footwear all the time - in my head. They're adults, they'll cop onto themselves one day, and it's none of my flipping business. It's uncouth to criticise strangers whose behaviour is not affecting oneself. Rude dog woman. 

 

The walk through the Wetlands goes into Morden Hall Park;  several attempts to take iconic bridge photos.

  

Stroll across to the Snuff Mill.

 
I tried a few photoly effects. Not sure what to conclude:

  

It was great to see many people out in the park, but sad not to see those those not enjoying the welcome and overdue sunlight. Part of me thinks that everybody should spend more time in our great parks, but another part of me thinks, no, we don't want the stunningly secret Morden Hall Park to be over-run by people! If you've never been, you could do worse than follow Morden Hall Park walk. Indeed, there are things in that I've never seen.

Great, too, to see early signs of Spring. I feel guilty for writing that. Last year, Spring arrived late, and all the better for it - bumper crops and so on. But I so wanted the gloom of winter to be over.

I took many poor quality shots of wildfowl, including herons, but I have more than enough mediocre photos of wildfowl. Time to say, enough is enough.

Normally in Morden Hall Park we walk (or cycle) down the grand drive next to the Hay Meadow, but this time we took the riverside route, through the arboretum...squelch squelch! It was so quiet, we only passed one other couple. We sat on a bench to watch the world go by but nothing did.

 

except some geese, and a heron taking flight

 

Not even much traffic on Morden Road

 Into Ravensbury Park where the millstream flowed in full force.

 

Several rubbish attempts to photograph waterfowl. Maybe I should get a DSLR with a Zoom lens. One more thing to carry around, and lose. Or I'd be daunted by using it so my photography would dwindle and cease. I was quite pleased with these, anyway

Just before we saw the swan we had noticed a couple of women in their mid twenties. We both thought they were probably Irish Travellers. One was careering along the footpath on a child's scooter (although I've subsequently seen rather too many adults on such a scooter). The other was taking an enormous St Bernard for a walk. We met at the swan, there was also a Polish mother and toddler. Our attention was drawn by the swan. The St Bernard stood there, relaxing, keeping an eye on the swan, not getting excited or agitated. I have never seen a dog so disciplined and well-behaved in the presence of water fowl. Swan, St Bernard, Sunshine...can't beat that (sadly, the St Bernard was lacking brandy). If I ever had a dog it would be a St Bernard. And not for the brandy! I should have photoed the St Bernard, but I didn't, so here's a photo of the London Rd bridge

We had caught a bus and a Tube to get to the Wandle, now we were in for a new adventure - a Croydon tram. Amazingly, only my second ever ride on a Croydon tram, and Jimmy's first

 

Our journey ended on a standard train to Streatham Common, not a station we use much. And early dinner in the Railway. Not sure what to think. Very positive about their craft ales and ciders, but this is no way to serve tea.

I shouldn't have needed to ask for this. Granted, this wasn't in the tea room. Even so, it's not difficult - teabags don't go in teacups. If you're making it in the cup, the cup must be a mug. If you're serving it in a teacup, it should be brewed in a pot. The water was not boiling. Their ineptitude at making tea made me less well disposed. I was part of a mass exodus when several of us separately but together decided it's pointless being in a pub where you can't hear yourself think over a baby that wouldn't stop screaming. 

The squid for a starter was very nice.

and the Somerset brie, chargrilled courgettes & sun dried tomato chutney on brioche bun, hand cut chips, bloody Mary ketchup filled a spot. Foodwise I'd go back the next time I come off a train at Streatham Common starving hungry. But maybe the service and ambience would put me off. Too far to 'pop out' to, but not special enough to justify a special journey.

 

 

 

View Merton Abbey To Mitcham Tram in a larger map

Learning to walk - again

Most of us do this at about a year old and don't give it much more thought. I guess people who suffer catastrophic injuries relearn, but I think most of the rest of us just plod on in an extension of our toddling.

A few months ago I read an article where some ignorant sniffy journalist mocked the idea of learning to breathe. I learnt in yoga that I don't breathe properly - I pull my stomach in on an in-breath rather than letting the air fill my diaphragm. This is consistent with what I've learnt about singing, too. This sniffy journalist clearly hadn't experienced singing, playing a woodwind instrument, swimming, or sprint running, all of which depend on breathing.

A chance remark by Ruth on her Coastal Walk Blog made me wonder - she's a GP, so I'm inclined to trust her. Something about good walking technique means bringing down the foot underneath the torso. I was watching a TV programme fronted by Sir Tony 'Baldrick' Robinson, walking through historic countryside. He seems to cover some miles on varied terrain but looks ungainly and splay footed.

So I googled 'How to walk properly'. Google auto-completed it, suggesting it's a common search. Plenty enough articles, some of which look  airy-fairy and don't convince me of their credibility.

Why walk? Many articles emphasise the health benefits. These can be overstated - as one commenter noted - are walkers healthier because they walk or do they walk because they are healthier? I try not to absorb 'facts' suggesting you increase your heartbeat by brisk walking for x minutes y times a week to extend your life by z years. On the other hand, I accept that walking improves 'general posture and muscle tone to prevent twisted ankles, calluses and long-term joint damage' from How to walk: A step by step guide in The Daily Telegraph.

I looked at several sites that seemed plausible and they were in consensus. Posture matters.

Fitness Walking Technique and Form from Walking Connection sums it up pithily - Head Up; Swing Your Arms; Use your Feet properly.

The Mayo Clinic has this useful diagram:

Useful, but a bit busy.

In yoga, my teacher tells us to root our feet, distributing the weight between the base knuckles of big toe and little, and heel. I can cope with the toes, but once I think about my heels, I feel as if I'm leaning backwards. 

Whenever I walk more than about quarter of a mile, I am conscious of a feeling in the balls of the feet, which increases in intensity the further I walk - from ache to pain to 'Burning Feet'. It doesn't take genius to connect these two facts. My GP has suggested that five years of Yoga will strenthen my core muscles and help with my feet problem - which I think will then help with my knee, hip and back problems.

Walking is a great way to see the scenery, in wild country or an urban park. It is logistically easier than cycling, because of buses and taxis. It's better for photography. But I can't stand walking between A&B in a city, especially not when there are buses and trains. Bores me stupid and makes my feet ache.

I was in the back garden and practised this idea of bringing the foot down on the heel first, then rolling the foot forward to take off from the ball. It feels very odd. I think - I can't be sure, because scrutinising it leads to change in behaviour - that I habitually come down on the ball of the foot. Perhaps that is at least part of the cause of my bad feet (and ankles, knees, hips and back). 

Now the question is, will I learn? Can I retrain my muscle memory to discard decades of bad habit? I think I can manage good posture. I suspect arm swinging will come quite naturally when i start to think about? But it's going to be difficult to learn how t come down on my heels. Not just when I'm out 'Walking' but even around the home and office, for example when walking to the loo or pacing around in pent-up frustration.

We shall see.

Another short ride

I was right to take that short spin to Tooting Common last week. I went out for another ride today, same destination but a greater distance. That approach is correct in the context of Graded Exercise Therapy/pacing for someone with mild fibromyalgia. Tuesday's ride was no more - but no less- than a light warm up and stretch. Today's the equivalent of a pre-prandial stroll. With the extra twist of the obligatory final leg up the hill. It was only at that point that I broke sweat and was breathing with any effort.

I dressed pretty much as I did on Tuesday - t-shirt, jogging bottoms, and canvas sandals. Just fine for a short spin like that, but if I had been going any further, I would have gone out differently. Better shoes. And more equipment. It's all nice and fluffy to go with a little handbag slung across your body,  but it's not that efficient. You need a rucksack for the water, the toolkit//pump, cardigan, map, camera, sandwiches, Swiss Army knife, ginger beer, crampons, distress flare. I exaggerate!

So, no photos.

I was going to put in a mention of a book I bought recently, called The Girl's Guide to Life on Two Wheels.

But I'm in two minds about it. It's well thought out, well written book, with some very useful tips, and some rather nive photography. But I should have taken the 'Girl' in the title as a red flag. I'm not quite sure when posh people stop being a 'girl', but other than specific usage such as 'Girls night out' most normal people stop using it by about the time they have a 'grown up' job and 'grown up' responsibilities, like bills.

Like so much of the media, it seems to assume that women are aged 35 or under, because, obviously, past the age of 35 women are, in fact, invisible, and have nothing else to do in life but curl up and wait to die.

I couldn't reasonably expect a journalist to have any insights into specific challenges of cycling with a chronic health condition, and it would be churlish to criticise someone for not catering specifically for my niche. So, if you're young, thin and girlish, this is a good book. There might be a market for a book written about cycling (and/or general fitness) for older women with health challenges, but to write it would take quite specific research and input from someone medically qualified. But of course, if anyone has any ideas, why not leave a comment, or email me!

Review from Total Women's Cycling

Back on the bike, slowly

This is a diary/progress post.

Last year, when it was quite hot, I went for a bike ride along the Wandle. At the end of the day I was moderately tired and aching, but attributed partly to my stupidity in wandering around trying to find Haydons Road station. 

The next day we took the train to the South Coast, and cycled from Shoreham to Worthing. Not far, but, in the heat, concentrating on hydration, I ignored food. Very stupid. On the Monday I had a hair appointment, only in Streatham, but because of a fatal car accident (or rather, a driver crashed his car into a bus whilst having a heart attack), the road was shut, and I had to walk. In truth, it's not a long walk, but I was anxious not to be too late - even though the hairdresser knew what had happened and reassured me to get there in my own time.

However, after returning home I was spent. Just needed to lay down. And take the next day off work. And, in total, was signed off for three weeks. This conveniently coincided with the Paralympics, which, just as much as - if not more than - the Olympics should have inspired me to bike riding. 

Meanwhile, I had a referral to a fibro clinic at Guy's hospital, which was helpful, and included some advice - and a referral to physiotherapy - for Graded Exercise Therapy. The principle of GET is to build up a level of stamina. It goes well with 'pacing' - knowing what you're physically capable of, and not exceeding that.  I suppose I could have gone out cycling in the autumn, but I wanted to get into GET properly. My physio sessions were during the winter. Cold wet windy weather, and snow, are demotivating for bike riding, but so are short days and dark evenings. I joined the gym at work and followed my physio instructions to gradually build up my time on the exercise bike and cross-trainer.

Exercise bikes are a poor substitute for the real thing. It's fundamentally boring being in a gym. We have BBC News Channel, with the sound down and subtitles scrolling. I could plug myself into my mp3 player. But it's boring. It lacks the pleasure of scenery whizzing back. There is no real sensual stimulation - smell, breeze, the bake of the sun. No opportunities for free-wheeling down slopes, and no visual goal to aim for when plodding up 'hills'. The exercise bike is performance, or at least, output driven. Leisure cycling doesn't care how fast you go, let alone how many RPMs and Watts and your heart-rate. Not that heart rate is measured correctly - mine hit 231, albeit after having spotted the Secretary of State (not in the gym). but then, Dr LittleBrother hit 247 on his Garmin.

Also, exercise bikes in low-rent gyms are not designed for women. Or, at least not for women of my height. I have a 'female fit geometry' bike at home - oddly, it's the equivalent of Himself's bike, which doesn't proclaim that it's male fit geometry. Being a woman is seen as bit 'other' 'different' 'odd'. In practice, I have to choose between struggling to reach the handlebars on the upright, or struggling to reach the pedals on the recumbent. The seat on the upright is designed for a male physiology. Women's saddles are very different. Granted, design matters most when you're doing long rides. On the other hand, if a short spin on a fixed bike leads to disproportionate discomfort and pain in the seating area, it's probably not doing much good. 

Useful tips in Female Anatomy and Saddle Discomfort

I had my bike serviced before Easter. then the weather wasn't good. and then I got a cold and cough, and, oh, excuses, and anxiety-induced inertia -which probably warrants a blogpost in itself.

I have bought a gorgeous book called Lost Lanes. The photography alone makes it a must for any discerning coffee table. I was leafing through the words one night recently and began to feel very frustrated. I want to be that person who goes on long all day bike rides. Why shouldn't I? Well, in order to ride long miles you should be reasonably fit. So frustrating to be caught between graded exercise/pacing, and a need and desire for stamina and strength. No point in planning 68 miles around the Isle of Wight without practice!

And so, on Tuesday evening, I left work slightly earlier than normal, and spent half an hour pedalling down to Tooting Common and back. A useful mixture of roads with stupid drivers - amazing how two drivers drove straight at me, (both in 4x4s), one out of sheer aggression, and one too stupid to know you're supposed to look to your right before propelling your car out of a side road. Easy riding along the tarmac, freewheel down the resurfaced path next to the Streatham Hill branch railway, and some moderately challenging riding across hardened mud and up a slight incline alongside the mainline railway. 

That was the easy bit. The hard bit is always  going home. Uphill all the way, and tedious. When I first got the bike, I had to get off and push, so it was a relief not to do so this time. I just felt that I perspired more than I needed to, given the ambient temperature. And, later, my feet were aching too much.

 At least I have now identified I have a footwear problem. In warm weather, I have  - stupidly, it turns out - been wearing light canvas shoes. I did previously wear trainers, but they packed up, and, frankly, who needs trainers? In sterner weather I wear sturdy shoes. But having done a light spin, and yet suffering sore feet for all the next day, I have realised that I need to buy a pair of shoes, either specifically designed for leisure cycling or similar mid-price non-fashion trainers.

Cultural norms

Obviously, and I want to say this right at the outset: I have absolutely no qualifications in anything that relates to medicine or psychology, nor have I ever been, in any practical sense and to my knowledge, in close observation of anyone with any marked mental illness, other than depression and various addictions.

There's been a lot of kerfuffle about some sociopath plugging some so-called 'managed anorexia' pill. Best source to read about it is in this interview by the excellent Johan Hari

I've felt very uneasy about quite a lot of the kerfuffle. For a start, I feel slightly queasy about the general assumption that as anorexia is classified as a mental illness, that is a fixed and incontrovertible fact. Yet, homosexuality was classified by the World Health Organisation as a mental illness as recently as 1990. In some contexts addictions are treated thus, even when it can be clearly demonstrated that they are not - or not even addictions: such as a 19-year old male from a conservative Christian background labelled a sex addict for wishing to masturbate five times a day and being aroused by the sight of his half-naked cousin.  Or women labelled and treated at considerable cost for 'sex-addiction' when the destructive behaviour is actually a manifestation of something different, more complex and much more profound. Drug addicts are regarded negatively as being agents of their own downfall and their parents blamed for poor parenting, not least by themselves.

I am also, on the whole, not one for using extremes as an excuse for banning moderation. For example, I wouldn't ban the sale of alcohol in shops and bars, despite what I have observed of the dangers of alcohol abuse and the destruction of alcoholism, but nor would I wave a bottle of whisky under their nose to taunt an alcoholic.

I want to avoid accusing 'the media' or 'people' of hypocrisy because the media is very diverse: those speaking out against something generally aren't those encouraging it in a different way, and even if individual people do happen to display double-standards, it may be because they're confused or torn, and probably not because they're malicious or hypocrites.

Given that anorexia is accepted as a mental illness, I don't think that marketing a particular pill is particularly significant. I know that people do seek out miracle pills for weight-loss (I know at least two who were given amphetamines from clinics, both in Clapham, coincidentally or not). It's almost like saying that because people get depressed, one mustn't have bad news, factual or fictional, on TV. Hmm, Eastenders, cot death. Don't go there: didn't see it.

I suppose what worries me is that while that vile little creature was getting his kicks and trying to make even more money from selling some pill from a website that people had to seek out, there is an awful lot more going on in all media which in my view is far more harmful. Terrestrial TV has run programmes - for sheer entertainment - of The World's Fattest Man and some competitive weight loss programme for morbidly obese people.

I suppose my instinct told me to despise the vile little man because of the absence of logic in his argument: basically, get thin and he'll pay you to shag him. It's part of a patriarchal view that women have to fulfil certain specific criteria in order earn the privilege of shagging a rather ordinary, nay unattractive man, whereas - gross generalisation coming up - ultimately, men aren't that fussy and it's women who get to do the choosing, except when men do the paying, which is an irrelevant point to most women. So, it's actually men who should shape up in order to be 'chosen' by discerning women.

I couldn't start to count the magazines that target women and girls in a constant message about dieting, get thin and so on. Celebrity magazines, Take A Break-style, magazines that aim to be a least partly cerebral, magazines about 'the home' and, of course, the fashion magazines. Echoed in the national newspapers and on the TV, in features as well as adverts. Get thin.

Stay thin.

Get thin.

Be obsessed by thinness.

Buy clothes for thin people.

Be thin.

Stay thin.

Don't enjoy your food.

Diet.

By this faddy diet book, this expensive food 'replacement'.

Be self-absorbed. Judge yourself by your appearance. Judge others by their appearance.

Be thin.

The body is everything. Neglect the brain. Be ignorant.  Let your critical judgement decay. Be thin.

It is so mainstream, so embedded in the way we live our lives, it's almost impossible not to be affected by this. I've seen it written that younger and younger girls are becoming more and more obsessed by their body image and by a media-driven 'ideal' of a superthin woman.

Not that I'm advocating obesity. I am overweight. That is an indisputable fact. Not just because the scales say so. Not just because the tape-measure says so. Not just because it's obvious to anyone that looks at me. But for all of those reasons, and more. It is clearly in my own interests to start exercising again, having let it slip, and to re-assess what I'm eating. It is certainly not in my interests to embark on some crash diet 'rapid weight loss' eat only bananas for a week followed by lean chicken as long as you do it standing on one leg whilst incanting in tongues nonsense. I want to lose fat because of the health benefits in doing so, because I don't want to fork out for new clothes when my existing ones no longer fit me. And, to be honest, I want to look 'good', too.

But I just don't see how people can get all irate about one here-today gone-tomorrow tosser who may or may not be selling some pill which may further encourage vulnerable people into self-harm, and yet they stay quiet about the incessant brainwashing that your worth as a woman is measured only by how thin you are.

Johann describes him as a sociopath and from the little I know that would make sense. Yet, surely, sociopathy is also a mental illness, but one that we as a society, ironically, have no sympathy for. Arguably, a sociopath has as little control over and responsibility for their actions as does an anorexic. Maybe, as I say, I don't know. We must publicly display sympathy for someone who at least at some level and at some time has, like the addict, chosen to self-harm, yet many of us instinctively think of a sociopath as tantamount to evil.

New Statesman has a commentary which nicely dismiss claims to free speech based on illegality; someone being free to say something doesn't remove the right of others to criticise or condemn. I just find it unconvincing that selling a 'weight management pill' can cause someone to become anorexic, especially considering it is a mental illness. And regarding people with an existing condition, who should be avoiding 'triggers', shouldn't we focus more on the constant brainwashing by Big Business rather than the rather amateurish marketing attempted by one obviously very disturbed individual.

Perhaps if we confront the brainwashing of Big Business, we would also have to examine our won complicity in it and our own desire to be manipulated. Just because I understood and long ago accepted my curvaceous figure and my superior intellect, doesn't mean that just sometimes I'd like to buy that top and be satisfied with unchallenging pursuits.

 

 

On giving up smoking

If you are content with spending thousands of pounds a year on smoking, please don't read this, because I don't want to be lectury or evangelical.

If you want to carry on smoking without the expense or many of the irritating side-effects, I think this post is for you.

And also for people who think it is their right to lecture people they barely know about smoking.

Smoking isn't big or clever. We all know this and don't actually need telling. It is extremely annoying to have some stranger or indeed slight acquaintance lecture one about this. It is not unique in its impact on the lives of other people. In my experience, those that lecture the most are usually people who drive big cars, often. They generally have well-thought out arguments about why they have the absolute right to belch dirty smelly pollutants into the atmosphere. As I do when I get on a plane, or bus, or sit here lights blazing with laptop  and TV on.

I used to smoke cigarettes and now I don't. And I don't see any reason why I ever will again.

This blogpost may end up being merely a bagful of praise for Electronic Cigarettes which have changed my life.

I don't want to give up nicotine. Giving up nicotine makes as much sense to me as giving up caffeine. Sure, there are disbenefits in both, but in my view they are outweighed by the benefits. Chocolate or alcohol, I can take or leave.

I had read and heard so much guff about how difficult it is to give up smoking. I have to say - that is totally rubbish. Once you have decided to do it, and decided when to do it, it's as easy as anything else you decide to do.

I felt a bit pressured into it because Jimmy gave up in April or sometime. I was beginning to freak out at the astronomical cost. I wasn't concerned about my health (so many other aspects to worry about). I wasn't frightfully concerned about the smoking ban: I just go less to pubs and restaurants as a result.

I didn't want to give up before going on holiday to Spain which has a very liberal attitude, and where I would be spending most of the time on the beach etc. I initially decided I would give up the day after I returned from holiday.

My reasoning - and you have to indulge my extreme silliness here -  was twofold. This was the day of George Oik Osborne's emergency budget. I made jokes about my giving up smoking will screw up his calculations. It was also the day of the Simon Boccanegra Insight Evening, and I have stated, almost convincingly with straight face, that Plácido Domingo would be more likely to make a pass at me if I wasn't smoking. Yeah right, humour me here!

In the end I rejected that day for two good reasons. One was that England v Germany was coming up the following Sunday, and the thought of a cigarette-less penalty shoot-out was scary. Yeah , a penalty shoot-out. We'd have been so lucky. I also decided I might as well pick the optimum time in my menstrual cycle - why make things more difficult than they need be?

I made sure that I was well stocked up on supplies for the Electronic cigarette, and just before bedtime on 27 June I smoked the final cigarette in the packet, turned to the Electronic version.

And, honestly, that's all there is to say. I don't miss cigarettes one bit. There are various occasions when my instinct tells me I ought to have one in my hand - after a shower, waking up in the morning, walking at out of the Albert Hall at an interval. And that's about it. Alcohol doesn't make a difference, because I'm not relying on willpower. On those occasions I just reach for the EC and I'm sorted.

The EC is better than other nicotine replacement products because it so closely replicates the physical actions of smoking. Holding it in the hand and inhaling, even kicking back with the throat. It glows red at the end, which seems a bit silly except that the red light also warns when the battery's going or when you've been sucking just too much. It suits me especially because I tend to put a lot of things in my mouth - I suck my thumb, chew my office pass and gnaw my way through woollen gloves and cardigan cuffs.

You even get to exhale some vapour which is far more satisfying than parking a piece of nicotine chewing gum under your tongue. It disconcerts some people and I suspect was the reason for a 'Smoking is not permitted anywhere on London Underground' announcement at Brixton Tube the other day.

There are downsides to the Electronic Cigarette. It hasn't been tested to the same rigour as products that are licensed by the MHRA. I recognise that as an unquantifiable risk, but in my view an acceptable risk for any ex-smoker because of the tremendous benefits. A few times I have noticed my heartbeat racing, as if I had drunk rapidly two double espressos. This occurred during the prologue of Simon Boccanegra, so conclude what you will.

Obviously, it's not a cost-free option, but I reckon it's considerably less than a pound a day (or four cheap cigarettes). It doesn't 'cure' the nicotine addiction, although I intend to move down from my current 'super-high' to 'low' or 'zero', but over a year or two. I suppose that makes it a crutch and obviously, I'm still an 'addict'. I would imagine it's not advisable for pregnant women or people with heart conditions.

The other downside is that my sense of smell has improved. Great! So, I get to smell other people's hygiene 'issues' or KFC on a bus even if no-one's eating it. I've lost my excuse to pop outside the office or elsewhere; at work this means I have less contact with non-auditors. And sadly, George Osborne is still Chancellor hellbent on destroying the country, England didn't get reinstated in the World Cup and Plácido didn't make a pass at me.

But I get to laugh at the non-smokers who don't have a steady drip drip of soothing nicotine, and smokers who have to put up with the dry throats, coughs and burns from traditional smoking. I win!

How the not-broken foot happened

Those of you have been following my tweets with baited breath throughout the day will know that,having hurt my foot last night, I woke up with it so sore I couldn't put weight on it nor bend it. I called in sick to work and work advised I go to the doctor to have it checked over. The doctor referred me to X-ray, and the x-ray department assured me it wasn't broken.

It happened as a culmination of an evening full of bizarre exasperating incidents.

I was waiting with friends, acquaintance and strangers on Floral Street outside the Stage Door of the Royal Opera House. Joseph Calleja had been out and had spent a lot of time surrounded by admiring fans. I don't care for pushing into pressing crowds and in the end I let him get away as he left in the opposite direction. Next out was John Tomlinson, who, again, spent quite some time surrounded by fans. When he finally emerged from the crowd, it was to walk along the road in front of where I was standing, so I walked over to him, took a photo, asked whether he would be appearing in future performances (he was, rightly, tight-lipped), and listened to some answers he was giving to someone else.

I moved away and realised that there were two women precariously close to me. They were unbelievably over-excited; one of them showing the other that she had got John Tomlinson's autograph. She was backing into me, all 4'6" of her, so I told her to watch out, and swerved to avoid her. She altered her path and continued backing into me. I swerved again, and managed to put my foot into a pothole, go over on both feets (I was wearing the slightest of heels) and fall to the ground, twisting as I went in order to protect my camera. At the point where my bum hit the ground, I exclaimed "Shit!" really rather loudly and very unladylike. But when you're rolling round in the gutter, you don't feel very ladylike anyway.

It was nice that people were sweet and concerned, but I didn't think I was that hurt. Still, it would have been decent if the moronic bint who caused it had apologised, or checked I was okay, rather than scurrying away. Cow. Grazed elbow, bang on the bum and generally shaken up. My foot hurt, but it didn't stop me half-walking, half-limping. I managed to carry on standing, and then walk into the Stage Door area and wait patiently to meet Plácido.

I didn't have any problems getting to the Tube and was mildly irritated at not getting a seat at Green Park. Indeed, it was only when the train was braking on the downhill run into Victoria and throwing my weight onto my left foot that it began to dawn on me it might be worse than I thought.

When I woke up, I realised that it wasn't feeling good. My instinct was to call into work, explain, say I was taking the day off to rest up. I called my manager's number, as per the rules, but I could only get his voicemail, and I feel that voicemail or email is insufficient for calling in sick, because it assumes that they are going to be in as planned. I ended up talking to my head of unit who was quietly insistent I went to my doctor. I dread going there, especially in the morning, and it took me ages to limp round there. There was a long wait just to register; I finally got to see the doctor who didn't even examine me. He referred me to X-ray, saying he's had three women this week who've been walking round with hairline fractures of feet, and that's not obvious by examination, so an X-ray would rule it out. He also gave me a 'fit note' signing me off for a week (not that I need it - I self certify for a week) but said go in, say on Monday, if I feel up to it.

I called my manager and explained. I thought I had to be honest. He's only recently become my manager and I don't think he knows the extent of my infatuation with Plácido. But my two previous managers do, as do several colleagues, and I've told my Head of Unit that I'm overdoing the nights out this week. I said that nothing, but nothing, will stop me going out tomorrow and I do believe that if you're fit enough to go out, you're fit enough to go to work (this doesn't apply if you're signed off long-term for a chronic condition). He agreed with me, but was happy with me saying that, depending on what the hospital says, I'll go in tomorrow but might be later than normal (going in the long way via two buses, to minimise walking, especially on stairs).

Fortunately, the GP referral was to X-Ray, so I didn't have to wait in A&E. I was in X-Ray for less than an hour, most of it waiting for a doctor to return from lunch. I was actually relieved there is no break, though it still aches like buggery.

Six years later

It could be the name of a horror film featuring Zombies, but instead I'm writing about Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. It's just about six years ago I was signed off for four months having attempted a come-back after a month off.

Even now, I am not sure what is wrong with me. Medical professionals and expert websites are contradictory in saying fibromyalgia and CFS are:

• separate conditions with often overlapping symptoms; 
• synonymous; or
• different, but always likely to occur together, one triggering or contributing to the other

Often, I can't describe what is wrong with me. I get incredible bursts of energy, do something, and then I feel tired, but, then, surely, doesn't everyone? Or I have pains and aches and think - I have to live with this every day. I then question, but doesn't everybody, at least by the time they get to my age (which isn't old but is certainly more than fresh-faced youth).

Then there are the knock-on effects. In the early years, doctors used to say things like 'best cure is an hour's daily exercise'. It was impossible then to do that, even a walk locally on chores would tire me out. Now, they say things like 'being overweight doesn't help'. As if I didn't know.

It peeves me that doctors only use the scale weight rather than proportion of fat - I was weighed just before I restarted swimming and bought a bike in 2008 summer, and I was weighed again early September last year, and all the doctor could say 'You've put on weight'. I pointed out how much extra exercise I'd done since the last weighing and how I'd gone down a dress size; in fairness, she acknowledged that this is normal, but it seems to me to be a poor way to measure relative health (for an unfit person I have surprisingly strong muscles especially in my back and my calves; I did have good thigh and upper arm muscles six months ago, they've gone a bit flabby since).

All that aside, it is not really that helpful to say 'being overweight makes your condition worse'. As with many other conditions - eg joints, heart/lungs, depression - the condition contributes to being overweight as much as vice versa in a vicious circle.

It annoys me that there are still people who do not take the condition seriously. 'It's all in the mind,' they say. Yeah sure. Your mind is telling you you desperately want to do something but you know the body lets you down.

Years ago, I fully endorsed the idea that if you were lucky enough to do your hobby as a living, and as long as it didn't interfere with your responsibilities to your children, for example, then do it. (Which is not the same as saying that you prove your capability at a routine job by accepting a macho culture of presenteeism).

In theory, I still believe this, but in practice, I can't see how it's possible - I no longer understand intuitively how people can push themselves for 12, 16 hours a day, 6 or 7 days a week, week upon end. (I could be cynical and say it causes burn-out, and it does for some, but not for all, or most).

I never used to be able simply to relax, to sit and vegetate, to watch TV purely as a pastime. I always had to be multi-tasking; even sitting in a pub was best when conversation was active and stimulating (still can't do small talk, idle chit chat; bores me rigid). Watching TV was justified by a paper sort or ironing, or a fact-finding/educational experience. 

Sometimes I think I am so well recovered that the future is a trajectory. It's possible to look at people who have had CFS and recovered to lead lives uncompromised by it. There are many many other people who live with it and give the impression of living normally, because they are able to manage it, hide the 'bad days' (and so many conditions have bad days), and ration how they apply themselves to tasks.

So I am slowly coming to an acceptance that there will never be a magical time when I return to normal (when 'normal' was working 9-6, followed by a Council meeting, followed by drinking in a late night bar to silly o'clock in order to get up to be in work again the next day, or work could often mean 9-9, or staying up overnight to finish a report). I wouldn't want to return to that, but I wish I could, say, work a full day, and then use the evening to go swimming or to a concert AND get some chores done AND do something constructive on the PC, without feeling there's a price to pay).

And then there's the agoraphobia. But that's a whole different story, for another day!

Religious nuttery and bad journalism combine in one article

Teenage girls to get contraceptive pill in pilot scheme

In a nutshell, there is a small pilot in Lambeth and Southwark to make oral contraceptives available from pharmacies rather than via a doctor.

I have read the article several times and I cannot find any specific reference to there being an upper age limit. Clicking through to the Q&A, I find that the scheme is available for any woman for whom an oral contraceptive is medically suitable. It doesn't take genius to work out that probably a 41-year old smoker would be refused oral contraception - but would be advised on more suitable methods. The Q&A says it isn't particularly aimed at women who don't have existing arrangements with their GP or Community Sexual Health team, so, in practice, it is aimed at much younger women. But there is nothing that specifically prevents a 30 year old accessing it, or even a 45+ woman, if they don't have existing contraceptive arrangements.*

I have several concerns that are partly addressed in the Q&A but not at all in the BBC article. This service is actually a contraceptive advice service which may lead to prescription of oral contraceptives. My instinct would be to say that for teenagers and any women who absolutely don't want to be pregnant under any circumstances, probably an injection or implant is more sensible than remembering to take a daily pill; also, it is extremely important to advise about barrier methods, for prevention of STIs which may cause infertility or other gynaecological malfunctions. None of this is discussed in the article.

Instead we get a rentaquote from the 'Christian Medical Fellowship', a self-appointed guardian of morals - in reality, some perverted dirty man who wants to control women's bodies, sexuality and fertility (sort of creep who ought to be locked up). He cites the lack of evidence that this will be effective. Gosh, it's a new scheme, it's being piloted! I guess that part of the pilot is to assess evidence which is yet to be collected.  (I hope - one has little faith in post-implementation reviews actually happening!)

Before the quote attributed to him is the following paragraph:

The pilot project is likely to attract criticism from those concerned that making contraception more readily available to 16-year-old girls might encourage them to have sex.

To which I can only say - your point is?

The age of consent in England is 16 (in fact, careful reading of the statute makes it 13 in certain circumstances). I fully accept that fear of an unwanted pregnancy is a major obstacle for many women, but the quote assumes or implies that 16 year old women having sex is a bad thing. 16 year old women having sex under duress and with inadequate contraception and/or STI prevention is definitely a bad thing, but this paragraph implies that basically 16 year olds shouldn't have sex, shouldn't have contraceptive advice and shouldn't be on the Pill.

If there are persuasive arguments to suppress the sexuality of 16-year-olds, legislate it. I think in practice the Christians actually don't want people to have sex unless married (and probably then only for purposes of breeding) and they will do anything to chip away at the freedom we have nowadays to express and fulfil our sexuality.

Back in the real world, teenagers have sex absolutely irrespective of the law, and Religious Nutters. I welcome any move that tries to make this safer.  I hope that there will be a full review of the pilot to see if, in practice, it has made the difference that is hoped, and whether it is cost-effective. I want it to determine which factors make the difference:  opening hours and proximity of appointments, or are there more profound reasons eg scared of going to a judgemental GP who is a friend of the parents or whatever.

It seems that the BBC, in its efforts to be impartial, whenever there is an article on sexual health and reproduction always have to have refer to religious-oriented pressure group obsessed by other people's sex lives (one suspects as a result of their own sexual frustration).

Where's the quote from Lambeth Youth Council, where's the investigative reporting on the possible drawbacks of the scheme, some of which I have outlined? Oh, wait, that would require more effort than merely rewriting the Southwark PCT Press Release and reproducing** a quote from this CMF that was probably spoonfed to them.

It disgusts me that an issue that is complex and important is reduced to a trade of sound-bites. It's a disservice to accountability and democracy and ultimately does nothing to advance the cause of sexual health.

* I realise it will be rare but not freakish for women to embark on their first sexual relationship with a man late in life, or maybe they're in a new relationship after being with a man who is sterile (through vasectomy or chemotherapy, say) or maybe they've been using condoms to prevent STIs but are now in a stable relationship and want to rethink their options

** see what I did there!

The "Get in Shape" Project

NB: This is not a diet blog. If anyone comes and tells me how they lost this or that on the South Park or the G&T diet, I'll be like, whatever. Diets do not work. Count how many fat people have been on diets.

At the start of the month I weighed myself. This is purely for the sake of the blog. The scales tell me that I have lost 9 kilos in six months and still need to lose 11 kilos to reach the maximum acceptable weight for my height. This now means I weigh just about what I did when I moved into this house 13 years ago and was told by an endocrinologist to lose about 10 kilos.

I went swimming on Sunday. I am not really sure what to say. I felt good afterwards. I enjoyed the endorphins pumping through my body. I think I enjoyed being in the pool, especially when I felt I was pushing my legs to work. But I do feel a bit despairing at the futility of it all. Before Christmas I had firm muscles in my legs and biceps and even my stomach and now I don't.

I want to recapture the late-summer and autumn enthusiasm for exercise. I tell myself to chill, it's winter, it's understandable that I do not want to be out and about like I was six months ago. I did actually have a minor inner panic when I decided that that excuse had gone on too long, that winter is 'nearly over'. Then I thought, no it's not.

I am not sure whether it is sufficient to tell myself that things will be different as it gets warmer and lighter (especially in the evenings). Am I fooling myself? It's easy to say now, that when the clocks go forward and Spring is in the air, I will get the bike out. Having got so much enjoyment out of just two months cycling last year, how can I not want to do that again?

The scales measuring my weight is what keeps me going. I did blog  something about going back to my doctors' and 'proving' to them that I am lighter than when they last weighed me. I am not sure why I have that mentality. We are not in a confrontation.

As my doctors, they would be negligent if they didn't mention the topic. They have suggested a gradual approach, choosing an exercise I enjoy, doing a little regularly. 'Told you so' is not really the right response in this case.

But I haven't been back since. I never got round to getting a repeat prescription of Tramadol. And I haven't missed it.  I think also that is a positive that spurs me on.

I think that the CFS was like a bad dream. It's almost like, now, I am thinking it was all in my head, which is stupid, because, believe me, it wasn't. You don't wake up one morning and decide you're going to pretend to be ill for four years. You do wake up and realise that you simply cannot go on, cannot function, cannot do what is expected of a normal person. You certainly don't pretend that you want to go onto nil sick-pay, part-time working, final attendance warnings, career stagnation, loss of friendships.

Perhaps, like acute pain, the body has a way of removing chromic exhaustion and the associated pain from muscle memory. I don't suppose people would think I'm mad for having no muscle memory of dislocated shoulder or burns, so why should a chronic pain be any different?

I do still get tired, but I can see a reason for that - lack of sleep, doing a lot. And I can drive myself to do more, I don't just collapse into a wet nelly. It may well be that I am now perfectly back to normal, cured, but I'm scared to say that. And, quite possibly, for the rest of my life, I will be reluctant to push myself to acute exhaustion, fearing the return of chronic exhaustion.

The most frustrating thing is that, having lost nearly a stone and a half, I am not sure what I have to show for it. I do feel a slight difference in my waist bands, at least in the morning. I think I expand during the course of the day, more than I used to. I don't feel as though my clothes are falling or hanging off me. And, actually I am not sure how far I owuld have to go to go down a dress size or three. My trousers and skirts are dictated by my hips which have never been fat. My blouses and dresses are dictated by my boobs. I suspect I actually need to go up a cup size, and my back muscles have strengthened. So maybe I shall turn into a solid lump rather than a fatty lump. I see people, know people, with very slight frames and even with what I consider to be a healthy-enough layer of body fat, andI think - their frame plus fat takes up less space than my skeleton would.

Going swimmingly

I went swimming this evening. I have to confess that it is the first time I have been in over two weeks. And I haven't been out on the bike in the interim. I have reasons, well, excuses. Well, pathetic really. Laziness, probably, getting dangerously close to a vicious circle or a spiral of decline.

There is a natural slump at this time of year. It has been unusual locally to have such a sustained period of unbroken cold weather, and I haven't handled it well. I do not regard myself as a Seasonal affective disorder (SAD) sufferer, but, I think, like most people, I do find the disproportionate darkness gets me down. To be honest, for the past few cold weeks, I can't really complain about a lack of light. Many days have been gloriously bright. I had a 5pm meeting in another building this evening, so I left my building at 1640 and my spirits soared that it was still light, just about. By the time of my birthday, it is still light at 5pm, and even though it will still be weeks before the Equinox and the clocks going forward, my mood lifts considerably. I wouldn't want to labour a point, I'm not sure it's even a mood. But there are certain thing I do hate, the most significant being standing at the bus stop in the dark waiting to get the bus home.

With more digressions than a Ronnie Corbett monologue, I was saying how I went swimming. I had been putting it off - took my kit into work last Tuesday, took it home Thursday. Took it in again this Tuesday, remembered to take it out of the cupboard, and so I went swimming.

During the autumn I had built up my muscles quite impressively, especially my thigh muscles and my biceps, and there was a noticeable slimming down of my face. I won't say I have lost all that, and I have said before, it's a bit like a game of snakes and ladders. People of my age and with my excess bulk do not lose fat overnight. My objective was not intended as a short-term fix but a drastic and permanent change in lifestyle, aimed firstly at not gaining any more fat, and secondly at reducing the fat (which ought to go hand-in-hand with better tone and firmer muscles) and thirdly re-establishing a healthy lifestyle which will hold me in good stead as the years progress and I face challenges such as osteoporosis* and Alzheimers, and everything I read persuades me that a sustainable exercise habit is the key to a healthy middle-and old-age. I don't think that angsting or guilt-tripping about winter slacking is particularly productive, but incorporating swimming, cycling and leisure walks into a year-round pattern.

I went swimming this evening. I only did ten lengths. I should have done more. I could have done more. But I am going again tomorrow and Saturday looks possible for cycling, even if only for an hour or so.

* actually with my dairy addiction and my astonishingly healthy teeth I am well low risk for osteoporosis

Back to life, back to reality

I know that most people had the Big Struggle Back yesterday. As I don't work Mondays, I had to face it today, even though I had managed one solitary day last week.

I don't do Christmas New Year blah de blah but I do do hibernation and slobbing. The swimming baths were closed for the two weeks, which has to be the work of a genius, when so many people are off school and work...!

I kept saying to myself I will go for a bike ride today, but then made pathetic excuses about the weather. That was, until I remembered it is traditional to hibernate and slob at this time, and thought, nah, slob and hibernate!

I seemed to have a series of conversations today either about 'this is it now, it's a long time 'til the next break' or 'isn't it cold? isn't it freezing?'. Which although humdrum and mundane has to be better than discussing Christmas hopes destined to be dashed.

I did get a bit excited on the way to work when I realised that there was not a hindrance in my way. All my struggles of the past few months through dug-up roads, diverted traffic and shifted bus-stops  seemed to be over. Same on the way home, it really is amazing, not an obstacle to be found.

Except that when I stepped off the bus across the road from Gert Cottage. I saw cones. I scrutinised them closely and realised that they were turning the two-lane Westbound carriageway into one lane. No doubt to be dug up very very soon. More worryingly there is a man-at-work sign at the end of Gert Cottage Boulevard, as well as a road-narrows sign. So, back to normality on the roads being dug up.

On the way to work I noticed that Woollies was still open. I got a bit excited and resolved that today would be the day I lose my virginity. My shoplifting virginity, that is. I even confided in this to someone, who said it would be closed by the time I got there this evening and anyway it would be completely bare. He was, of course, right. But I peered dolefully in through the shutters, my last glimpse of an institution that has been part of my life since before I can remember: Altrincham, Southend, Streatham, and Brixton. I don't remember there being one in Beeston, nor, bizarrely, can I recall if there was or wasn't one in Sale, ever.

I didn't help my mission to shoplift by going swimming before I ever got as far as Woollies. Oh, that was hilarious. I had confided in a friend that, as I hadn't been for three weeks I wasn't sure how it would go, also I predicted that it would be really crowded. My confidante laughed, knowing as well as I do how many people make short-lived resolutions to get fit in the New Year.

Actually, the pool was only marginally busier than it was in, say, November. Although a helluva lot busier than it was the week before Christmas. What made me laugh more was the gym, which is a sort of balcony with big picture windows above the swimming pool. Now, that was crowded! The most telling observation in the swimming pool was the ratio of sensible one piece costumes to teeny bikinis. Normally, I would say the ratio is 9:1. Today, the bikinis won.

As soon as I got in, I realised that three weeks of near-total slobbiness had taken its toll. I knew that anyway, it was so obvious from the flabbiness that has returned round the muscles I had had oh so briefly. But then after doing a couple of lengths as a warm up, and realising that that was effortless, without increase in pulse or breathing, I felt so very pleased with myself, and remembered that in Snakes and Ladders someone eventually finishes at square 100; given enough time and abolition of sudden-death competition, everyone will get there.

I am not going to pretend that I spent ages in the pool nor that I did dozens and dozens of lengths. I stopped at the point where my thigh muscles started to ache - in a good way - and went for a soak in the shower. For the second time today, a shower simply wasn't hot enough. I don't think there is any fundamental problem with either my home shower or the one at the Recreation Centre. I think it's just about perception and I can't understand it any more than I can understand the ambient temperature in my house.

The thermostat tells me that my house, which feels really cold, is actually no colder than on one of those mild autumn nights when I come home and feel that the house is like a sauna. I know that one of the quirks of living in an old (pre-Victorian) house without hermetically-sealed plastic window frames is that there are draughts, or healthy ventilation, I call it. But surely, surely, temperature is absolute. It might take more work from the boiler to get it there, and a gas meter* spinning like a whirling dervish, but once it's there, it's temperature, surely!

By the way, I'm just being very English moaning about the weather. We don't really do weather, even though we have plenty of it. I know it isn't really cold, like cold places are cold. But it's colder than most of us pretend we can remember. Tonight's minimum is forecast to be -4, and wind chill -10, with freezing at sea level, and the max tomorrow is 3, with a wind chill of -2. So, it's just unusually cold compared to recent winters. But not like cold cold.

I have just weighed myself, purely for the sake of the blog. I now weigh six kilogrammes less than when I started swimming again in August. This means that I am now fourteen kilogrammes heavier than the maximum ideal weight for my height. Perhaps this is because of the muscles wasting away, but hopefully it is also about fat disappearing. I never set out to lose weight per se; I knew I had to get fir for life, also I wanted to reduce my dress size because I would simply have a wider choice of clothes to buy if my dress size reduced.

My muscles have increased, the fat has decreased. Most importantly, I feel better physically and psychologically. Oh, that endorphin¹ glow on the bus! I believe I look better, too, at least, people have told me this. Interestingly, the one thing that hasn't changed is my dress size, because my belly still resembles a small hill and my my back muscles have strengthened. So the loss of some fat from the hips and the increased definition of my waist count for nothing!

However, by doing this slowly, by starting when it suited me not when the calendar said so, by avoiding stupid fad or crash diets, by not obsessing about food, by not deleting from my life the sensuality of taste, by incorporating a moderate and enjoyable exercise regime into my life, I firmly believe that I will transform my body in a way that will endure.

*yeah, I know, it's digital, they don't spin these days

¹ did you know that this is a compound word from 'endogenous' and 'morphine'

Fitness update

I don't for a minute think that blogposts about exercise are the most thrilling blogposts , coming slightly below dreams although significantly above cat pictures.

However, because I started writing about my embracing of exercise, if I don't carry on, there will be readers thinking, yeah, we knew it,it would be a passing phase, she'd soon give up. So it acts as a motivation. There is also a part of me that hopes that maybe someone thinks 'bloody hell if that fat lazy cow can do it, there's no excuse for me'  and that would be a positive thing in itself. (If they then act on their thought!).

I am pleased to report that my weight is holding absolutely steady since the last time I reported it, which is two kilogrammes heavier than four months ago, and makes me more than twenty kilogrammes overweight. Yet several people have said stuff like "You're looking really well" or "You've lost so much weight". I patiently explain I have lost fat and built muscle. 

Jimmy going back to work full time plus not long after the clocks going back has rather stymied the excellent routine and mutual encouragement we had developed. It had been at least a couple of weeks since I got the bike out, lame excuses like it's cold, it's wet, it goes dark early,and the lamest of the lot...the best way to get the bikes out is to wheel them outside the front door of the shed, lock the shed from within, leave by the back door of the shed, lock the kitchen door, go to front door, put on outdoor shoes, go outside front door...at which point there is a risk, however slight, of the bike being nicked. So I decided to carry it through the house, which is a lot less hassle than unbolting and bolting the shed door.

On Saturday I went out to Tooting Common for an hour, and this glorious sunny and clear morning I cycled to the top of Brockwell Park and gazed for many miles across the skyline of London, soaking in the UV Rays of the sun.  Really, being out in the cold is no big deal presuming one is well wrapped up and gloved. The cold hits the face initially but that soon goes. Until you stop, then the chill breeze once again hits the face moistened by light sweat a ladylike glow.

I went swimming yesterday evening. I did six lengths to warm up and realised that in that five or so minutes I had effortlessly completed what represented a full session not very long ago. Oh heck, what do I do now? More lengths. One thing that I wonder about. As I get fitter and more muscular I find I am doing more lengths in a shorter time than it took to do fewer. So eg I can do a lot more in 20 minutes than I used to do in 30 minutes. Is it more important to up the number of lengths, in order to continue to do half an hour, or to have a target number of lengths in shrinking time period, or to increase the time and the intensity in the pool?

I picked up a leaflet from my Pharmacist which says being active on five or more days of the week - 30 minutes for general health benefits and 60 minutes to 'help you lose weight and stop the weight going back on'.  Then it categorises various activities - eg strolling  (light), cycling, 10-12 mph (moderate) or swimming, crawl (vigorous) but doesn't really say whether 60 minutes of 'light' is equivalent to 30 minutes of 'vigorous' or whatever.

And I also don't like that constant use of the word 'weight'. I don't give a damn what I weigh; if I did I would have collapsed disheartened in tears and given up disillusioned by now. I am far more interested in waist measurement, and hip-to-waist ratio (and would be even more interested if I could actually locate my waist). This is known in everyday parlance as dress size.  Above my navel I have the beginnings of a muscular and well-defined six-pack; below my navel I have a bloated gut that is not a pretty sight and can only be disguised by my droopy breasts hanging down (that last bit is a joke, my boobs are very pert thank you). 

It's not just a theoretical moan with me.

I am absolutely and totally not losing any weight whatsoever, yet I am measurably fitter and clearly less fat than I was four months ago. If I was on some supervised programme, be it Fat Fighters or the NHS, I would be weighed in the balance and found lacking, or rather, found not lacking, but would be judged a failure.

I'm strong, energetic, high self-esteem, high level of knowledge and therefore don't give a shit, but if I were different, I would probably by now have embarked on some lunatic diet contradictory to basic science, would be feeling totally miserable, and would soon fall off the diet, and with the damage done to my metabolism and Christmas looming, I would balloon up by another five kilogrammes or more, or at least a dress size, which would make me more depressed, so launch me onto another faddy diet, doomed to fail, which would notch my fat levels up higher whilst stripping away my muscle.

Surely a major contributory factor to the 'obesity epidemic' is  the cynical marketing of and profiteering from stupid damaging diets that screw-up people's bodies. One of the (many) evils of unfettered capitalism.

But what excuse the NHS has, I don't know. Although, significantly, their Change4Life website, about tackling childhood obesity, does not use the word 'weight' once but does say 

There is a clear link between having too much fat in your body and preventable illnesses like diabetes, coronary heart disease, cancer and depression.

Which is gratifying. But the Department of Health has a strategy called Healthy Weight, Healthy Lives which does not seem at all helpful. And their PSA target is defined by weight. Sigh. It should be fat. Fat. Fat not weight.

Feeling good to be alive

(except for my ongoing Broadband problems)

It is difficult to explain how good I feel. It feels so good it is scary. I am petrified it might go away. I feel that good, I think I might be normal.

Many people think I am incurably unable to get up, out and in of a morning. Not actually true. I am very poor at going to bed. On both Monday and Tuesday nights I went to bed much much later than I ought to have done and, of course, got less sleep than I should. Not very long ago, two consecutive nights with too little sleep would have left me barely able to get through the working day. But not this week. Yesterday and today I did slightly more than a full day without ever feeling tired. Last night I cooked a meal from scratch and did some tidying, as well as write  two - very pleasantly - laborious blogposts.

I took my swimming kit into work today. By six o'clock I was undecided as to whether I actually wanted to go swimming. I opened my desk-pedestal and saw that there was no room to store my swim-stuff. When I left the office I realised I had just missed an 88 from outside, so walked to the next bus-stop. If I caught an 88 that would take me to Clapham Common to pick up another bus to take me home, avoiding Brixton Rec. The first bus that came was a C10 to Pimlico Station, so I decided that as the simplest way home was via Brixton, I might as well go swimming.

There are two things that put me off going swimming. One is the journey. But I would still have to journey home, so that's silly. The second is the getting dressed and undressed. Coldly and analytically that is 'wasted time'. One of my character defects is allowing irrelevancies and peripheries deter me from doing something essentially positive.

Within 45 minutes of leaving the office I was in the water. I am not, by any stretch, a strong swimmer. I am, actually, a natural water babe. I can happily swim under water, eyes open, no goggles. I can happily do quite a medley of strokes:

•  doggy paddle;
•  front-crawl-with-a-float (that is to make me use my legs rather than relying on my arms too much);
• lazy-backstroke (lie on back and kick legs; occasionally use arms);
• proper backstroke (when I can be bothered);
• sort-of-front-crawl (head down, three strokes, up-and-breathe, head down, repeat, breathing at each side alternatively) - considering I got my 25metres badge in this in 1978 I think I am doing damn well to be able to do probably 18 metres without breaking rhythm!

You get the picture!

I stayed 20 minutes in the water. Remember, I am early middle-aged, overweight, heavy smoking,  unfit and recovering/ed from several years of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. That's ten lengths, taking it easy, resting when I feel like it, ploughing up and down at my own pace, increasing the heart rate, getting elegantly sweaty.

And I wonder, is it enough?

I'm not knackered, tired, achy. All positive. I can feel my muscles strengthening...yes, I know that swimming is a cardio,  not resistance, exercise, but my starting point was low. Also, I think I my natural body-type is muscular (albeit wrapped in a protective layer of fat); I suspect I am more muscular than many women who are exponentially fitter than me. Even my fat tummy now has muscular definition.

I sat on the bus on the way home (so much quieter, what a difference an hour makes) and reflected on this startling development. I feel like I did years ago when a hard day's auditing was followed by a work out, a long evening on Council stuff, and often a session in a pub, and I just went on and on. I have been puzzled for years how I managed to do it, full of wonder at the energy of other people.  I am beginning to believe that I can do it. Energy is plentiful.

And yet, I am so scared because the constant danger with CFS is 'overdoing it'. That massive step forward is destroyed by a violent lurch back. I don't ever want to be like that again.Half of me wants to push myself, to demonstrate to myself and others that it's over, I'm cured, I'm normal again. But I have to conquer that psychological barrier of fear that I try and kid myself is sensible caution.

My weight is holding steady at the two kilogrammes above what I was back in August, which leaves me 22 kilos above my 'target' weight.  This doesn't bother me particularly, because my objective was never to lose weight, but to get fitter and to tone up. I did however assume that three months later, a by-product would be a reduction in my weight.

I expect at some point to go to the doctors for a repeat prescription and only be given it on the condition I submit to being weighed and having my blood pressure taken. At which point a doctor will suggest that I need to lose weight, and I will say that I cycle or swim three to five times a week and have been doing so since August.

I know that one of the objectives of exercise is to build up muscles. I can feel that my muscles are firmer and stronger. I also know that exercise takes energy from one's reserves of fat (and when they run out, the body strips the muscles, which is why rapid weight loss diets are so very stupid). I also know that the more dense the muscles, the more energy the body requires just to sit still or sleep. Furthermore, I know that of two people with the same height and girth, the more muscled one will weigh more than the fatter one. This means that many supremely fit people eg rugby players are well above their target weight.

But I also feel that, as I get fitter, build up my muscles and push my body to use energy, I ought to lose weight. My starting position is being considerably heavier than is advised for my height. I actually don't think I have been that weight since I was at school. If the experts say that I ought be three-and-a-half stone lighter, what must I do to get there, even to start moving in that direction?* It is something that puzzles me, I wonder if there is something about my body (heavy bones? - when I was a baby my GP told my mother I had heavy bones...) that actually means that my ideal weight is actually heavier than the upper range recommended for my height. What would happen if I exercised four hours a day and ate only under the supervision of a qualified nutritionist (other than feeling miserable at losing the sensuality of good food)? Is it significant that my feet and hands swell during the day; that trousers that start the day as tight-fitting end up throttling me?

* I accept that I don't eat the healthiest of diets; I do like my cakes and biscuits, but I know people who work out very seriously, entering marathons triathlons and so on, and they don't spurn the biscuits, cakes and sweeties left 'in the usual place'.

Electronic cigarettes - the future?

A couple of days ago I linked to BBC News website about a new product, Electronic cigarettes. Not only did I link, but I splurged and bought a starter-kit and some refill cartridges.

The principle is that this is an alternative to smoking cigarettes and other tobacco products. It aims to deliver nicotine (which is nice, and addictive, and broadly speaking about as harmful as caffeine) without the unfortunate side-effects of tobacco, which as well as being carcinogenic is also smelly, tends to annoy certain parts of the population almost as much as exhaust fumes annoy me, discolours soft furnishings and wardrobed clothes, and can lead to unfortunate conflagrations in waste-paper bins, clothes and beds.And most pertinently is now banned in workplaces and enclosed public buildings etc

Assume that I smoke about 40 a day. Sometimes it's more, sometimes it's less. But say 40. In monetary terms, suppose I were to buy leading brand cigarettes on a packet-by-packet basis from legal sources in the UK that would be about £12 a day or £350 a month. Except that my expenditure is nothing like that, as a result of legitimate purchases overseas, cheap Bulgarian and Lithuanian-sourced cigarettes being easily available if you know where, the fact than some less-than-leading brands are nicer and cheaper, and the perennial money-saver, the rollie.

The starter kit arrived about an hour and a half ago and I took delivery of my Electronic Cigarette. To my surprise,the battery didn't even need charging, so I was able to start straight away. So far, I haven't had a cigarette but have been sucking away on the E-Cig.

Nevertheless, twice I have had a reflex action to reach for a packet of real cigarettes and - interestingly - a lighter. Obviously, it's impossible to tell at this point whether the thing really is effective. I suspect its use will be when not only is it not permitted to smoke but it's not possible to go outside - I think mainly of plane or train journeys, but there are numerous work - or leisure -  situations where you can't escape at a time that suits. It may not be so satisfying on waking up, or post-orgasm, or after a meal. We shall see.

I think a big issue is other people's attitudes. Not so much at work, but in restaurants etc where it's almost inevitable that someone will object. I will be torn between explaining politely;  or laughing contemptuously at them and suggesting that their objection to such a thing makes a mockery of their imagined objection to cigarettes - if they can't sense the difference between a smokeless odourless thing that produces less vapour than a  hot beverage and a cigarette maybe it's all in their mind to start with. I certainly don't want to get in to rows with fellow customers, but also I don't want to be trying to explain to a jobsworth that I am not smoking, I am not breaking the law etc. And, I guess, on aeroplanes, the common sense approach would be not to use it at the times when laptops and 'other electronic devices' are forbidden. And just in case, carry a print-out of the BBC news article that states they're legal to smoke indoors. Although I am sure that, very soon, they will become widespread and commonplace.

I shall report more from time to time. So far, I would say, you don't quite get the hit of the taste hitting the throat, and my hands are reaching out for a fag. I don't think I have suddenly given up smoking cigarettes.

Exercise update

10 weeks in. In the past week we swam on Tuesday, went shopping on Friday (which doesn't count, but the thud thud of feet on hard pavements, and the constant change of temperatures between autumnal outside and tropical in shops is more tiring than anything else).

About an hour's cycling on Saturday but we caught in a few spits of rain which we thought was the onset of the promised deluge. It wasn't.

Sunday, swimming, several lengths. If I chose I could swim happily for dozens of lengths or a considerable period of time without exerting myself, which is a vast improvement on Session 1 when I struggled to do 3/4 length without physical pain! I don't choose to do so. I do lengths in twos - first, my special hybrid front-crawl/doggy paddle which acts as a warm-up. Then back stroke, which is the ultimate lazy stroke, especially when I can't be bothered to use my arms. Then I do a sort of front crawl but with a float to make me use my legs because otherwise I rely too much on my upper body. Then I do front crawl. I am trying to recapture/perfect my technique ie breathing every third stroke. My trouble is that I am comfortable swimming with my face wholly submerged and eyes open that I leave it too long to come up and breathe, then I'm gasping. I repeat this routine, not necessarily in the same order, until bored or over-exerted.

Today, out riding again on Tooting Common. I found it frustrating that my legs didn't seem to be working. Except on the decline or the very flat I was finding it very straining on my thighs, and when I rested it took a long time to get my breath and heart-rate back to normal. I am trying to figure out the effect of different factors such as how long since the last meal, the frequency of drinking, and where I am in my cycle. I am sure I used to know all these things instinctively, but I have to keep reminding myself I can't magically return to being 27 and fit.

I know that my skirt/trouser size has decreased - I can now remove such garments without unfastening them (potentially embarrassing were someone to inadvertently step on the trailing hem of my skirt going downstairs, for instance...). I can feel a much better definition of my arm and leg muscles. My belly still resembles a mound of jelly and I do believe that I have gained two kilogrammes in weight!

Weight size and exercise

Long-term readers of this site will know I don't do exercise. Heck, recent readers of this site will know I don't do exercise. Anyone who has only been reading since 4 August has to realise I don't do exercise.

I am very disdainful of the 'gym culture'. Obviously, I know there are exceptions, there always are, but I feel a large number of people who regularly attend gyms, and 99.9999999999% of people who think they ought to, do so because they've been told. Told by advertisers, and by lazy journalists whose livelihood depends on the advertisers. Some silly twit I used to know (I quite liked him, but he was a silly twit) had the temerity to ask me why I don't go to the gym. I said something like, the time you spend honing your body, I spend stimulating my mind. He said that he finds that going to the gym stimulates the mind. Oh god, I thought, this discussion is going nowhere fast. As he had no experience of exercising his mind, he wouldn't begin to understand me.

All the experts who aren't paid a fortune to sell a product, state that somebody who eats a reasonably balanced diet can keep perfectly fit by walking, housework etc.(Except that a great many people never walk, anywhere). And, indeed, up until about five years ago I was perfectly happy with being a bit plump but able to run for the bus. All that changed with CFS (and then got worse when I got pregnant, briefly).

I don't do diets, because they patently obviously don't work - if they did work, there wouldn't be a new one invented every week. I used to be aware of waistbands - from time to time a tight waistband would signify a need to move about a bit more and eat a little bit less (especially chocolate, cakes and alcohol). I don't weigh myself - if one's weight is falling, the worst thing one can do is get obsessed by fractions of kilos. If it's ballooning it's depressing to have stark confirmation of what you already know. If it's staying stable, your waistbands tell you that.

Years ago I was told at a hospital that my ideal weight was x kilogrammes. At the time I weighed x+10. It was relatively easy to get down to x+5. Then other stuff got in the way. I then thought, hey, I was x+10 despite exercising three times a week. I got to x+5 by giving up exercise. You can see why I don't do exercise!

However, I went to the doctor a few months ago and was weighed - it was a condition they set before I could get a repeat prescription of my Tramadol, and I can't live without my Tramadol 'It's strong' say various medical professionals. Erm, yes, but not actually strong enough. At that point I weighed x+25.

Having been doing the exercise thing for six weeks, and all but cut alcohol out of my diet, I now weigh x+25. I know that because I read that you should weigh yourself before and after exercise. For every pound you lose you should drink a pint of water. After I had been out on the bike for an hour - not very streneous (except for climbing up the hill to the top of Brockwell Park...) - but in the surprising heat of the afternoon, I weighed myself again and discovered that I had put on a kilogramme, quite surprising considering that I had drunk about a quarter a litre of water (not enough...).

So I suppose it would be good to get rid of some of the +25. But slowly. Over maybe a year. Maybe two years. And not by using the bathroom scales. We shall see.

Exhaustion and stress

It is so frustrating. I know that all the time that I am better than I was a year ago, two years ago. Three years ago I took two or three weeks off work because I was exhausted. Four years ago I took most of a year off because I was exhausted. Just about 4 years ago I slept through until the afternoon before going to ENO's The Valkyrie. I got a taxi home and slept for another fourteen hours. So, you know, such a difference now.

One of the problems in being in recovery from CFS is over-confidence, 'overdoing it'. There are broadly two theories about CFS, one is that it lasts for ever; the other that it lasts for about 4 - 7 years. Sometimes I think, more than 4 years later, I'm cured.

Which of course is rubbish.

A double-edged sword is that I survive a lot on adrenaline and nervous energy. So, being in Barcelona at the weekend, I got through really well. Saturday was a marathon and I don't think I got to sleep until five o'clock, but I never felt tired. It was nice spending Sunday on the beach at Barcoleneta. Walking back to our hotel, I found parts of my body just packing up. It's always exciting trying to predict which bit will go next. I have been struggling on and off with my right knee, which makes going downstairs problematic, but far from impossible. But when you have a dodgy right knee, and then your left foot packs up, it makes life...fun.

My journey back was totally unstressful. The plane was due to go at 1410 and didn't start boarding until then. Knowing that I already had my seat allocated I saw no purpose in standing around in a queue that wasn't going to move. So I sat reading for half an hour, and was the third last person onto the bus to be driven five miles around Barcelona airport. And then I had the stress of a taxi driver from Paddington who was a worshipper of the Queen Mother,and then started harping on about the good old days when Debutantes, the daughters of Lords, just had 'honorary jobs'. I did get a bit annoyed, pointing out they are complete nobodies, people who have a title because they got pissed with some king from long ago. My grandfather was a bus-driver and his father a farrier, and I am proud to be from that background.

It was slightly stressful to be on a different flight with Jimmy. I have this idea in my head that he can't look after himself, but he did point out he has managed to get himself to and from and around Australia on his own! He was a bit concerned that we were smuggling cigarettes. I patiently explained that it is perfectly legal to buy duty-paid cigarettes in other EU countries, as long as they are for personal use. Even so, we swapped suitcases so that I could swan through UKBA without suspicion, whereas if he was stopped (because of sharing family ties including a surname with convicted drug smugglers) he would just have to explain away having female stuff in his suitcase...that being, I'm a girl, I have a heavier suitcase...shoes, gadget chargers, bags of magic stuff (like shower gel, painkillers...), he's a man, he carries the heavier suitcase. He had a copy of my eticket print out.

But actually, it was also less stressful not being with Jimmy. He hates flying, and twists and turns and grumbles throughout flights, plus every action I take has to be communicated 'I'm going to the loo,you wait there; the exit is to the left; the train goes in five minutes..."

But then I was really knackered on Tuesday and decided to take the day off. Not exactly snowed under with work (waiting on other busy people so I can kick a couple of audits off), and flush with Annual Leave, it was a sensible decision. I struggled through Wednesday and Thursday, just about, and last night went to Tosca. I enjoyed it, although not as much as last week. This was partly for objective reasons (Tony Pappano wasn't conducting), partly because a second hearing in close proximity actually detracted a bit from the magic, but mainly because I was tired.

I went to bed almost immediately I got home and slept the clock round. I did not feel great when I got up and I have done virtually nothing since. It annoys me, it was a trouble-free, stress-free weekend away. I used to do it all the time. In my early twenties I was away visiting, or entertaining guests, nearly every weekend, working full time, partying hard, and I never really felt drained, let alone achey.

Burying the past

I so-hated Nicola the Bitch Dentist of Belgravia that I have already mentioned her three times on this blog

Nicola the Bitch Dentist from Belgravia told me if I didn't give up smoking I would have cavities by 40. I have just been to the dentist and back. Ha! I am forty. I have no cavities. Suck that Nicola Bitch Patronising Dentist from Hellgravia.

Quick poll: how many of my readers like me and two of my audit colleagues are also entirely without fillings?

Recreate that cruise ship exprience from the comfort of your own home

Stomach bug sweeping the country

Save yourself a fortune, wear the same grotty pair of pyjamas for a week, and actually lose weight!

Norovirus, coming to you soon, just like on the posh cruise ships...

I'b god a coad

Jimmy thinks this is hilarious because I *never* get colds. I certainly don't get man-flu. I was fine in my first meeting of the morning; in my second, I had to leave the room to get a tissue. and it steadily progressed from there.

It's very confusing. It's not strictly true I don't get colds. They come round every couple of years or so and linger for a day or two, so by my advanced age I have some experience of the common cold. But this is almost a novel experience. Apart from a problematic nose, my other symptoms are aching limbs, feeling very hot in the office and extreme tiredness. And what are they also the symptoms of - Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. And yet I am feeling very energetic. Which is weird, because the overheating, aching limbs etc usually knock me out. Tired and energetic. V. confusing. and v. annoying, because what usually completely knocks me out each month has been survived elegantly. Sods bloody law.

Last time I got a cold, I announced on blog, back in the days when blog was a personal journey through my life, that I was retiring to bed to read Roy Jenkins on Churchill. I got mocked for that. I think I shall just retire to bed and cuddle up with the teddy bears - mind you, they always have a habit of coming down with whatever affliction is affecting the human residents of Gert Cottage, so I'm going to end up with two teddy bears with colds, and being male teddy bears, suddenly it will be 'flu'. And trust me, teddy bear man flu is not a good thing to be nurse to.

General Moan

Feel free to ignore, and I'm not looking for sympathy.

Besides, it's long and boring. No lengthy boringness should be allowed on the internet.

I know that whenever one has a moan about minor trivial stuff, one immediately finds someone else who is in a similar but worse situation. And in any case, I know that there are plenty of people a lot worse off than me. So I'm definitely not looking for sympathy.

It just annoys me. Illness, that is. Throughout my life I've had my fair share - or less - of routine illnesses and inconsequential injuries.

Then in 2004, I had all that time off, and I've never been right since, including being reduced to part time. I look back and remember how bad I was. I am not sure I realised at the time. I would typically sleep for twelve hours, do nothing, and then require a nap of an hour or two before reverting to doing nothing before another twelve hours sleep.

And gradually I began to improve. I would feel good, and I would push it, only to find that I was again tired and needing sleep. Lots of it. Sometimes it's difficult to distinguish the dull ache of exhaustion from the tender ache of soreness. I can't sit still for long without being reduced to pain. For example, on training courses, I sit there attentive for a while, then I ache and fidget. I find getting a second chair and putting my feet up helps considerably. I was on a day-long course a year or so back, and people - slight acquaintances and strangers - gave me strange looks, which is sort of embarrassing. On the other hand, on our Unit conference in October, not only did no one make any joking/snidey remarks but there were people who fetched and arranged my second chair for me.

Even so I find it tiresome that I feel the need to explain so often. I look 'normal' - but don't many people with disabilities? And sometimes I'm not disabled at all. Sometimes I can run for buses, bound up stairs. I have always been full of nervous, adrenaline-fuelled unproductive energy. So it is difficult to convince people sometimes that using a lift or standing on the down escalator is not laziness. Once I was wincing with pain, someone asked me what was the matter. Stiff and achy I replied. She sympathised, she felt the same after a new exercise class the previous evening. I know she meant well, but I don't and can't do exercise classes. Swimming's good for me, once I'm in it, but it's the getting there. And - I'll admit it - when I pay a fortune for a professional hair-dye, I'm not sure I want it ruined by constant exposure to chlorine. I get my hair done after a beach holiday, not before.

But those are the good days. The bad days are the ones where I lack the energy to do anything except mooch and procrastinate. The disturbed sleep patterns. I know I don't help myself. I should force myself to get up, to make sure I am tired at a decent time. Instead, I get up at midday on a Sunday, bed at one o'clock, up at midday on a Monday, which means, I am not ready to sleep by midnight or later, one or two sometimes, which means I have insufficient sleep to get me through Tuesday, normally a working day.

Sometimes I feel great and I enthusiastically embrace life, then I get so far and I just droop. We have been in restaurants and Jimmy knows it's time to get out. As soon as possible. I find that the reserve of adrenaline and misplaced energy can have its uses - if something matters enough I will get through it. But a routine meal out, or day at work is not enough.

It's nice to go for a walk. Even then I have to pace myself. An hour's walking is just enough. Followed by a soak in the bath or a pint in a pub. And not if I have anything planned for later.

And yet I know I am now much much better than I was three years ago, or two years ago. I have to accept that I am no better than I was a year ago. I have to accept that it probably won't get any better than this. And that is quite difficult to deal with. This is it, for life now. Of course, it's good that I get out. I do not see much of friends these days - I'm generally too nervous about making arrangements I end up cancelling. I'm a write-off for electioneering, except perhaps for telephone Voter ID, which I have never enjoyed, and am never comfortable doing.

I did join the gym at work, not for vigorous work-outs, but for yoga and pilates. I could never be bothered. Maybe I should make more of an effort. I'm gaining weight alarmingly.

But it does upset me sometimes when I know all the things I used to be capable of doing and am no longer. Having a basically sunny and optimistic personality, I keep thinking it will get better. Of course it will. who spends their life being tired and achey every day. It's a comfort to know that however bad it feels, it's not as bad as three years ago.

And then I have really bad days. sometimes, a whole week of bad days. When sleeping just isn't enough. when I wide awake and tired. They say if you want something doing, ask a busy person. I am the opposite. Sometimes I sit around doing nothing all day long. Not because of an absence of things to do, but because I don't have the energy.

As I say, I'm not looking for sympathy. Just trying to explain why sometimes I give the impression of not-being-bothered, why I am for ever destined to let people down,to let myself down.

End of trial

It seems a long time ago since I began my clinical drugs trial, but now I am undergoing down titration - that is, a gradual reduction of dosage to zero.

Last week I underwent the same procedures that I had at the start of the trial.

It was all a bit amusing because the physiologist was on leave and the doctor was substituting and was not entirely sure what to do. In addition it seemed that all the rooms in the Loony Bin, and the Research Room in the main hospital were double booked. Not helping matters was the receptionist in the Loony Bin who I swear was David Walliams as Lou Todd. And with the doctor sharing a surname with a Little Britain character, it had a surreal air to it.

At least the blood-taking went wonderfully. For me, anyway. Just a tiny prick, first attempt, no mark, no bruising. Left arm - inside of elbow. The doctor had instructions on spinning some vials, and one of them had to be smeared on a slide.  The instructions said "Wear gloves." She didn't. I ticked her off.

The following day was the scan. I was really not very nervous about it all. And as I approached the Loony bin, my mp3 player happened to play the wonderful Benedictus from An Armed Man: A Mass For Peace - I said last time that Karl Jenkins is looking after me, and this was evident again.

It was not painful or uncomfortable being in the scanner. The pain and discomfort were, once again, synthesised by pressure being brought to bear on my thumb. Again I was in an extraordinary limbo between waking and sleeping. Awake because I knew what was happening. Asleep because I was dreaming, lucid dreaming, but not the normal day dreaming I do at work or whatever...It was very pleasant despite the monotonous noise and the repetitive but randomly varying pressure on my thumb.

And then I had to leave the tunnel, which was a scary experience. I could not walk straight and I felt very fragile. It was difficult to get to the bus stop and I let buses go that would have meant changing. I had decided I was not going into work, and after  bath I spend much of the afternoon sleeping. I felt like a zombie all day. Not entirely 'out of it', able to function on a day-to-day level, but not actually able to deal with crisis or confrontation should they have occurred.

Pain management

Long term readers will have been regaled over the years with varying details of my mystery illness*. More recent ones will be aware of the clinical drug trial I am currently undertaking.

The illness has two main manifestations, pain and tiredness, which exacerbate each other.

The two factors are particularly severe around the time of my period. To the extent that anybody keeping track of my sick absences would be forced to comment on how regular my cycle is**.

Having survived more than twenty years with little or no premenstrual pain, having even sat through exams and thought 'ow, that's a bit uncomfortable, now where was I?' it has been extra galling to experience debilitating pain so frequently. Admittedly, some of this is the ageing process, but the problems have been particularly acute in the past two or three years.

I don't get paid when I'm off sick. I am in the process of applying for 'pay at pension rate'. If this is only £10 a day it should wipe out my overdraft. So I don't want to take time off.

Yesterday, as expected, I felt the first grumblings of pain. I decided, and said to manager "I'm not feeling great, I'm good enough now but will be worse tomorrow. With your permission, I shall work at home. I don't know how much I shall do, Thursday and Friday, but if it's only five hours, that will be reflected in my time-sheet." I outlined the tasks I could reasonably do at home (like, writing three reports). He endorsed my decision without prying or querying or arguing (his attitude encourages me to be honest; partly because he has a unique insight into my condition and partly because he's a decent human being).

Bizarrely I don't feel too bad today, and know I will feel better tomorrow. I have not resorted to painkillers, although a warm bath has been welcome. And I shall take an afternoon nap. Because I can. But unless you have suffered the pain I have for the past two years or so, you will have no idea how good it feels to have a mild niggly pain rather than a doubling up in tear-filled agony overdosing on Nurofen Plus.

Is this the effect of the secret code-named drug? Or is it merely the psychological belief that it's making a difference? I don't know. That's why they have statistically valid double-blinds. But the evidence from the US and Japan is that it works. And I am inclined to think there is evidence from Brixton Hill Clapham Park that it works.

* diagnosed alternatively as CFS or fibromyalgia

** or else make an idiotic observation "Suspicious how she seems to go off sick on a four weekly basis. Must be malinger."

Weather moan weather

I'm joining in the meme.

I waited so long for the heat to arrive and now it's here I wish it would just piss off. Or piss down.

I feel really shit. I was supposed to be out tonight. Just couldn't face it. Even though I'm missing my favourite baritone in my favourite opera. I even told Gerald weeks ago I'd be there. I'm sure he'll survive...!

There have been two claps of thunder. Dry impotent useless claps of thunder. I wander into the garden occasionally and gaze hopefully at the sky, hoping that it will chuck it down.

I am supposedly watching Germany v Italy but it's annoying the hell out of me. It's not about those intense annoying Budweiser ads (you know, if I was a Budweiser drinker, which I'm not because it's chemical piss, I would have ceased to be one now. Not necessarily out of principle but because of the association with those adverts that make me homicidal). It's not the it, it's the me.

I am feeling drained and lethargic. Prime cause, ongoing fybromyalgia/CFS whatever. Secondary cause - is it the tablets from the drug trial? Dunno. Is it the heat? Yeah, probably. Is it that I had alcohol over the weekend? Without a doubt. But something that has been bubbling at the back of my mind for weeks, and has suddenly coalesced into something so obvious. I always feel shit when I eat bread and bread-products.

I wonder, if I cut out the bread, will I feel any better? Or, when the rains come, as come they must, will I not care no more?

Into the tunnel

Today to the scanner. I had to remove jewellery, glasses etc. I had to lie on a bed/trolley, with my head strapped in position. A button was taped to my leg so I could press it if I needed attention. A headset was also placed on my head so that they could speak to me, and I could use the attached microphone. I did a couple of times, when I wanted to scratch my face or rub my nose. I was given the tube from yesterday, the one that inflicts randomised pressure/pain on my thumb. Today it was my right thumb. And I was covered with a blanket, a cellular blanket, because it was very cold in the MRI room. I love cellular blankets in hospital settings. , cosy and comforting.

The bed was raised and then wheeled backwards into a large hood, and it all went rather dark. I had been told that I would be in for about fifty minutes, for four scans, but it ended up being about an hour and a quarter, and six scans. Initially, there were fuzzy lines round my pictures, so they pulled down my bra straps. But that didn't seem to work, either. I did request some water - suddenly my mouth had got very parched - and when they came with the water, they quizzed me about my hair products! I was thinking, maybe it's just my hair. I was having a big hair day; I'm overdue a cut (oh, the roots are dreadful...). Whatever the cause was, they finally got some decent pictures. No doubt to be sent to Belgium, along with my heart and (some of) my blood!

It was very strange in the scanner. I never felt claustrophobic, but I did feel isolated and a bit surreal. It was noisy and they kept inflicting pain on my thumbnail, and yet I felt very calm. Although the strange thing was the most severe pain didn't manifest itself as 'ouch ouch' but as extreme irritation and an annoyance that really got on my nerves, a bit like an itch, or scratching polystyrene. I did try to concentrate on the pain, but there were long and short periods without pain, just noise. And yet, despite the noise, I was able to have a general think - half drafting this blog-entry, recalling some pleasant memories from last month, thinking about things on my 'to do' list.

As the session continued, I became quite drowsy. I did not think I would fall asleep, and I had no trouble keeping my  eyes open. But my mind was playing tricks on me. Which I think just proves that being in a Loony Bin messes with your mind! I was utterly convinced that I could hear some sopranos soaring away in a loud chorus, and then the strings came in. It was an entirely unfamiliar piece but I 'knew' that it was by Karl Jenkins, who qualifies as my celebrity stalker.

It was very strange, almost like an out-of-body experience. It crossed my mind later that if I was a religious nutter I might even try and make claims that I had temporarily died: the sound was very celestial, and if I had been brainwashed by the Godsquad I might actually believe it was a choir of angels, or some message that God -  or Karl Jenkins - was watching over  me.  Of course, being rational, I did not accept that belief, but it made me realise how easy it is to enter into that delusion.

Does anyone else ever experience 'waking' dreams? I do. They are different from daydreams, where I'm in control and directing a creative process; and different from sleeping dreams, which are either experienced in recall, or occasionally are lucid - I am aware that I am asleep and dreaming, and am aware of what is happening, and often want to direct events, but can't. But the waking dreams are the usually the most abstract or surreal - for example, my 'waking dream' was telling me to channel the different levels of inflicted pain into different colour boxes - dark green, like Lambeth's Recycling Boxes, and purple, like Liverpool's wheelie bins. Because, obviously, it's entirely logical to dream about Liverpool Wheelie Bins when lying in a MRI scanner on the Lambeth-Southwark borders.

At one point I wanted nothing than just to curl up and go to sleep; regretting my intention to go to work, just wanting my own bed,  but then knowing that my pleasure would be ruined by the noise nuisance from 30 Streatham Place.

When I emerged from the I felt disoriented and quite delicate. The Researcher led me back to Reception, and I had no sense of retracing footsteps; it was like I had never been there before, although I had earlier, and yesterday. As  to the bus-stop, I felt quite beleaguered and not entirely with it. I think if I had encountered a quotidian mini-crisis I would have not been able to negotiate it. Partly because of the disorientation and partly because I was feeling very lethargic.  I could not be bothered to walk down the escalator at Brixton, an unusual occurrence. And when I got to work I informed my manager how I was feeling. He's being brilliant and very supportive, and was not surprised when at four o'clock I said I was going (although I had not got in until midday). I went home and straight into the bath, and then lying down and dozing until eight.

My brain is now functioning, but I do feel the same old dull ache in various parts of my body, notably around my neck and shoulders, and in my calves and feet. I have now taken my first tablet. One this evening, one tomorrow evening, and then from Friday, two a day. However, I do not know if they are real or placebo. And nor do my research team.

Next week I get a phone call to check how I'm feeling. If the tablets make me nauseous, I can call and ask for an anti-emetic. And I have a monitoring  appointment in early July. I will have another scan at the end of the trial, which I think is thirteen weeks.

The great experiment

I'm having my mind messed with in the furtherance of medical science.

I returned to the hospital this morning. Well, I say 'the hospital' but strictly speaking, it was the hospital across the road - the Loony Bin*.

First problem. On Friday, one of my tubes of blood defrosted en route to Belgium for analysis. So the doctor needed to take another sample. He took one look at the arm that had failed to yield a drop last week and decided he wouldn't try that one. An attempt on my right arm yielded nothing, just a needle sticking forlornly into my vein with not a drop surrendered.

He then tried my right wrist. Again, the needle sits there, but not a drop a blood would I relinquish. So he started beating up my left arm, and finally concluded that I don't have veins in my elbow. I had tried to explain, my mother has always had the same problem. I have in the past given nearly a whole armful of blood through the elbow, I'll have you know. But like my mother, I try to insist that a woman does it. Or is it a nurse, I can't remember. I have been bled so often in the past two years it really isn't an issue. But I do need a phlebotomist.

Still, I have a new personal motto. "If you prick me, do I not bleed?" (No). And you have a new expression "like getting blood from a Gert." So we all win, don't we? Except the vampires in Belgium. And medical science.

But that was the least of my suffering. The main purpose was a pain threshold test. I had to fill in yet another questionnaire. Self-analysis shows me that pain isn't my main problem; it's the complete and utter exhaustion, lack of energy and inability to concentrate that affects me mostly. And the pain is just there. All the time, but liveable with.

As she applied an increasing pressure to my tenderpoints, I held a button that I had to press when it felt like pain, rather than pressure. And then I had to use a special gadget, plugged into a PC owned by a German University, and, no doubt, connected via the wonders of the internet to Belgium. I had to stick my thumb in a tube. Pressure was applied in increasing amounts and I had to record my measurement of the pain. Then it was randomised, and at times, it hurt. My poor ickle thumb was sore and marked. I had to suck it better.

Tomorrow, we go in search of my brain (which, inevitably, at first attempt I typed as brian). An MRI scan. I have to think carefully what I wear. Nothing metallic. I'm not sure whether that includes my bra, a masterpiece of engineering. And it will be cold. I shall have to concentrate** on the pain, whereas normally for scans they will play music as a distraction. I have to keep my eyes open. Presumably I can't wander off into daydreams, or thinking about the working day ahead, or compiling a shopping list.

I will blog the experience. If it I survive it. That also will be in the Loony Bin.

Naturally, this post cannot be brought to you without a quote from the immortal Tony Hancock

* I know, I know, politically incorrect. But it was me who was admitted to the Loony Bin, not you
** which I am unable to do...it's a symptom of the syndrome

Guinea pigging

This morning I went to hospital for the next stage in my conspiracy with the global pharmaceutical complex.

I underwent various tests. The researcher asked me various questions about the various symptoms I have experienced ever since I went down with this syndrome. Some obvious symptoms - tiredness, interrupted sleep, muscular aches, inability to concentrate, memory loss, numbness, dizziness, pins-and-needles - and others that I had not really thought about but I have experienced, such as abdominal pain, sweating, or ones that I did not even think as being related - eg hot flushes, indigestion (and for those who know me, hiccups didn't even crop up...!). I was asked whether I had experienced palpitations and trembling. What, me...!

I then had to complete a sort of psychometric test, although I suspect it was more of a psychiatric self-assessment. I'm not sure how I'm going to come across. Happy, content, calm, confident, not afraid of arguing but not prone to violence. They also asked about strategies with coping with pain. I ticked high on the 'have a bath', 'take medication', 'lie down', 'listen to music', 'think about nice things' and 'read' and was shocked at how many times they mentioned god as a solution - then I realised it was American. The attitudinal one was Swedish and made no mention of god. I don't think so, anyway, my Swedish isn't too good*

The doctor arrived and checked my blood pressure with a stethoscope - 100/70, which is just cool. The last time I had it checked was a few weeks ago and it was 129/85. That was either because the electronic machine was buggered because of the stress I had experienced trying to book tickets in the opening seconds of ROH Period 1 booking opening. I'm tending to the former, because I had it measured again in today's session and it was in the high 120s, and the researcher said the machine is very unreliable.

The blood sample taking was rather stressful. I absolutely don't mind needles one bit;what I do find disturbing is when I have a needle inserted into what I trust is a vein and the doctor is sitting there looking puzzled because nothing is coming out. Not that it surprises me. I really shouldn't let men come anywhere near my veins. I have never yet had a man get it right first time. So I had to offer my other arm for the sacrifice. It's funny, but I am one of the most squeamish people I know, yet I find it utterly fascinating to watch as different tubes are attached to the needle sticking into my arm and my blood flows out. And I was disappointed I blinked as he removed the needle - that ought to repulse me, but it didn't. It makes me feel much worse writing this than it did experiencing it

Next was the EEG. I had sticky tape attached to my ankles, wrists, cleavage and stomach, to which were attached wires, which were attached to a machine, which transmitted the data to Belgium.

The bad news about this trial is that I should cut back on cigarettes and alcohol - no more than 25 fags and two glasses of wine a day. I said that should be fine - unless England go to penalties...I was asked if I had a history of drug abuse. Drug abuse! Me! As I said, one drag on a joint and I'm flat on my back!

I go back next week, first for a pain test and the following day for an MRI scan.

* it was, of course, in English!