You’d think a broken-down old writer would be pleased when it’s a grey rainy January day because there are no lures competing with the desk and the emerging work-in-progress (despite the fact that writing a screenplay is turning out to be soooo much harder than writing a novel, especially when it’s an adaptation of your own novel – I mean – how can a woman slice out whole sections of prose which she thought were important enough to include in the first place? )
deep breath – Even so, be that as it may, and notwithstanding, (just using too many words there as a form of rebellion against screenwriting) by yesterday afternoon I was feeling twitchy and desperate for exercise. This was despite the fact that I have Fair Isle arm warmers to knit for Zoe, and a patchwork quilt of my own that requires weeks of work.
It’s all due to the new diet and fitness regime designed to shed those Christmas pounds, so I could go to the GP for the over-60s health check. I can now sit comfortably on the sofa after tea (dinner or supper to you lot down south) without undoing the waistband of my jeans. I can now get to the third tunnel on the Trail and back again without needing mouth-to-mouth.
The upshot of getting fit is that you can’t bear to get no exercise for more than two days at a time. So I braved the rain and went out. But the mud! The mud!
I have booked the surgery appointment for next Wednesday. I am fit, and almost my normal weight again. Let the nurse call me apple-shaped. I’ll give her what for.
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