I am excited about going to Brighton.
It is one of those vibrant places that makes you feel about ten years younger, plus I will be able to make calls on my mobile there without people poking fun. The breeze draws in off the English Channel. It is bracing and refreshing, just as it is bracing and refreshing to be nailed to an Alp whilst Mary Archer empties a box of Mini Milks down the inside of your teeshirt.
“What do you fancy for lunch?” asks my host. “We should have something that you can’t get in Norfolk. Like something foreign.”
I do not rise to the jibe. Clearly they have not heard that there is a kebab house that now delivers to the Village. I give a long groan of overindulgence.
“Something healthy,” I complain. I have come straight from a few days at the LTLP’s parents. “I feel desperately fat and unhealthy. I’ve been eating and drinking constantly. Roast dinners. Pies. Cider. Wine. Just something healthy. Nothing deep fried, nothing stodgy, nothing in batter, no alcohol.”
I am pointed towards a sushi bar, which I quickly discount. Ten minutes later we are sat in ‘Momma Cherri’s Soul Food Shack,’ ordering plates of fried chicken, ribs, meatballs and jambalaya, to be washed down with bottles Moosehead beer.
Why? Why do I do it? Why?!? Staggering back to the station later on, I find I have to run for the train. This does not go well, and several passengers look at my red and sweating face with alarm.
I still refuse to join Short Tony, Len the Fish etc. at Weightwatchers, although I do like the sound of the fact that they all meet afterwards at the chippy over the road to boast about who has lost the most weight. But I am gradually getting fat. I am eating unhealthily, drinking too much, I have not gone running for months and it is still a couple of months before the bowls season starts.
I need to do something. But where will I find the willpower?