Life Is Moreish

bulk :: 12st 8
gym visits :: 4
hours of badminton :: 2
swims swum :: 1
muscles pulled :: 1
pulled muscles butched out :: 1
episodes of Breaking Bad watched :: 10
blips :: 1

My mum had a bad night last night. She was up four or five times with diarrhoea and then vomiting. This is not as rare an occurrence as it should be and whenever it happens, she sleeps late, understandably, and whenever she sleeps late, I imagine she has died in bed.

I can’t help myself.

This morning that fear was particularly bad, I think because I was eager to punish myself for the thoughts I had yesterday – thoughts I almost scrubbed out, or at least cleaned up, but then didn’t because … well, because they were real.

But she didn’t die. She got up just before noon. Feeling better, but looking frail and tremulous, and still all churned up inside. Her insides are in turmoil. Which is apparently par for the course.

She’s doing the crossword now, afraid to eat for the moment, a hot bag of wheat snaking round her belly.

She has a check-up at the hospital in three weeks’ time.

In the meantime, we soldier on, and rise above. And I am working quite hard on some books. Three books to be exact. And on my health.

Speaking of which, I’m very much enjoying A friend suggested that my filling it in was a sign of tremendous anal retention on my part, and that may well be true. But it’s working. As in, it’s making me very aware of what I’m putting in my body, and how much work I’m doing to burn it off.

It also tells me when I’ve gone too far and drifted into ‘starvation mode’, which is good to know, because even though famine chic might sometimes feel more attractive than middle-aged blubber-slick, it really isn’t. Plus, apparently, you don’t actually lose any weight in starvation mode. So what’s the point?

Finally, my mum has definitely been bitten by the Breaking Bad bug. She still can’t remember what it’s called – ‘Something Bag?’ has been her closest guess so far – and whenever I remind her of Mr White’s name, she insists on singing, ‘Walter, Walter, lead me to the altar’ – but that aside, she’s actually started suggesting we watch it now, and last night she described it as ‘moreish’.

This pleases me immeasurably.

She’s alive, goddammit!

And so am I.


About the Author

I am Karl Webster. I wrote these words. If you liked them, you’ll be overjoyed to know that there are plenty more where they came from. So you should definitely sign up to my newsletter if you haven’t already.

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