#unrecognisable

So I made it.

I attended.

And I got out unscathed.

I actually had a really great time.

And the best bit of all, nobody recognised me.

That I was unrecognisable was apparent from the get go.

In case you need reminding, I'm talking about my reunion.

My school reunion.

My 25 year school reunion.

Class of 1988.

Yup, that's right.

I am not the footloose, fancy free young man some of you may have been imagining me to be. 

I am a 42 year old who really needs to stop behaving a like a skank.

Or less like a skank.

And who really did not want to be perceived for what he is at a gathering of approximately 80 of the 200 men with whom I went to school.

I knew that the first thing that had to be right was the outfit.

And it was, lemme tell you.

I was a touch more formal than the other guys.

To be expected.

But I was definitely the best dressed.

Well, duh.

Emporio Armani grey on grey jacket over Vivienne Westwood finely checked black and white button down shirt, with signature three buttoned high collar.

Navy blue Herringbone pocket square.

Scotch & Soda dirty blue chinos.

Zegna belt.

And my favourites, my Dolce & Gabbana loafers.

Now I had selected this outfit the minute I'd received the invitation.

Knowing full well that at that time I could not do up either the shirt or the trousers.

But I made it.

I fitted.

Into both of them.

The chinos are a size 30.

Fucking size 30.

And there was even room for a finger to slide under the waistband.

All.

The.

Way.

Around.

The whole look was a little more restrained than my usual thing, but you know, I think it's given me a new fashion direction.

I even held back on the pocket square, opting for the traditional fold, rather than my usual flamboyant flourish. 

Which seemed in the context of this ensemble to resemble an origami Sydney Opera House.

the ensemble, however, did seem to garner the exact right response.

"You look very smart".

Which is as much as you can expect from a middle aged straight man.

This of course came after the puzzled look they all gave me, the subsequent glance at the name tag, and then the wave of recognition as they reconciled the current me with the version they remembered.

Which was followed by; "How the hell are you? I didn't recognise you. You look great!"

I could stop there, because basically that's all that I wanted.

But I do feel the need to reiterate what a great time I had.

I was genuinely impressed by what nice men those arseholes had turned into.

The widespread homophobia that I had experienced as a teenager in the 1980s, which was still fairly evident the last time I'd seen them en masse, seemed not only to have dissipated, but indeed had disappeared completely.

Not that there were gays-a-plenty, for I think all poofters who came of age last century would still be exorcising at least some demons.

But there were more of us than last time, and we definitely felt more welcome.

In fact there was one who was quite unexpected, who made me feel very welcome indeed....

But I can't tell you about that now, as I'm about to dash down to the foreshore to try and catch a glimpse of Prince Harry...

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#scottfree

In case you're worried, that was not me you saw on Border Patrol.

And consequently, no that wasn't me being photographed leaving the courts with a jumper over my head.

That drug haul we saw on the news had nothing to do with me.

Although, as an aside, I do always experience some slight panic when I see those stories.

Especially in the weeks leading up to any major event.

Hope it's not someone I know.

How are we gonna have fun at that party?

The drugs will be extra expensive.

And probably shit.

But I digress.

Pills arrived.

Bringing no conviction with them.

Other than that they would make me thin.

It was 4 weeks out when they did.

So despite my anxiety that they'd never get here, once they did I had confidence in their powers.

Although not quite enough confidence to stick to the recommended dosage.

During the first week I didn't sleep for three days.

And I couldn't be very far from a lavatory for more than an hour at a time.

I had the shits and the shakes so badly one Tuesday that I had to take day off work.

But it seemed to be doing the trick.

Combined, of course, with the gruelling whip-cracking of @hot_trainer.

And my favourite signature exercise - a cycle class.

I love that I can go into a darkened room first thing in the morning and basically dance for 45 minutes.

Sure I'm on peddles.

But if the music is right it takes me back to Arq at 5am.

About 10 years ago.

Although I'm not worried about what I'm wearing.

Or trying to pick up.

Or running the risk of a possible overdose.

And I don't have to talk to anybody.

Or buy a drink.

Although I do maintain two memberships in order to indulge this reminiscence.

For the zhuzzhi P.E. Dept of which I am so fond does not offer the spin classes I thrive on.

And Fitness First does not offer me the wanker-free zone I need to work out confidently.

So I pay $98 per month for this indulgence.

And of late I've clearly been getting my money's worth.
At least 3 days a week to both of them.
If I pro-rata it, it's a little over $4 per visit.
It's how I rationalise my fashion purchases.
That $600 cashmere sweater was worn at least 3 times a week for the whole of winter.
(Even if only for a few hours at a time).
If I reduce that to what I call Dollar Per Wear, it's $15.22 a pop.
Practically free.
Same with my gym membership. 

Although it has all dropped off a little.

Since The Big Event.

Remember, that thing that inspired it all.

The. School. Reunion.

Yes.

It's been.

The date has passed.

And I attended.

Although not without reservation.
For, as I think I may have suggested, I did have to steel myself.

But I attended.

And do you think this all paid off?

Do you think I was unrecognisable?

Was I Victoria Beckham?

Did I invent Post-Its?
And what's that pic about?
It's just there because he's beautiful, and I couldn't think of anything else.

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#schapelle

Despite the great efforts and quite considerable talents of @hot_trainer I felt I was too far gone to rely on the age old remedy of reduced food intake and increased exercise.

If I was going to fulfil my ambition of being completely unrecognisable I was gonna have to pull out the big guns. 

No, not steroids.

Not that I am completely opposed to steroid use per se.

I mean, sometimes, it's all about whatever it takes.

But I am resistant to the idea of being all veiny and purplish.

I am also not too keen to test the theory that they shrink your penis.

Nor that they accelerate the ageing process.

I'm doing that perfectly well on my own, thank you.

Accelerating the aging process, that is.

Penis is fine.

Not ideal.

But more than adequate.

No I am talking about 'supplements'.

Discovered through targeted Facebook marketing.

And purchased online.

Apparently it's the secret to Hugh Jackman's physique.

I'd been wondering about that.

And all those before and after shots can't be faked.

I mean, they're definitely the same person... right?

They couldn't get away with that, surely?

Surely these marketeers wouldn't be so shameless as to prey on the vulnerability of consumers with a lifelong struggle with weight and self-image?

How this is discernible through my online life and social media I have no idea, but  given that they pop up on my feed all the time, alongside banners asking me if I want to meet singles in my area, then either Athena Starwoman is running the internet from beyond the grave, or else I need to track my history and look at what that says about me and my life.

It's a bit like your credit card bill and bank statement isn't it?

So often in crime fiction or police tele-dramas, investigators seem to glean so much from the bank accounts of the dead person.

What the fuck would they think of mine if I was suddenly found murdered?

What does my consuming say about me?

TaxiPay

iTunes

Potts Point Liquor

Soleil Tanning

Becker Minty

iTunes

TaxiPay

P.E. Dept

Potts Point Liquor

iTunes

iTunes

Soleil Tanning

David Jones Food Hall

TaxiPay

iTunes

Potts Point Liquor

iTunes

Face of Man Grooming Salon

TaxiPay

Hugo Boss

Fitness First

iTunes

TaxiPay

Soleil Tanning

Potts Point Liquor

And of course now recent statement includes 2 transactions from CleanHealthNutrition.

One for $144.37.

The other for $144.53.

So when you see similar ads pop up on your own feed and think 'does anybody really buy from ads like this?' the answer is yes.

Yes, they do.

Well, I do anyway.

I purchased both at the same time.

One for stripping fat.

The other for building lean muscle mass.

Both promising that I would not need to do adjust my diet, exercise regime or lifestyle.

And I have taken them at their word.

Which I possibly shouldn't have, considering the muscle building pills arrived well before the fat strippers.

Based on a testimonial I was relying on losing 9 kg in 30 days.

And that all important deadline was drawing near.

And I was becoming fearful that somehow the fat stripping tablets were held up at Customs.

Their ingredients, despite, being available without prescription, were a banned substance in Australia.

According to the tracking number the package was in Australia.

I emailed the supplier requesting an update.

No response.

Guaranteed to undermine the confidence of any online shopper.

I researched the ingredients.

Sketchy information.

Was I gonna end up on Border Patrol?

Am I Schapelle Corby?

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#thinspiration

Time to call @hot_trainer

Again.

Although I had to steel myself even for that.

I felt somewhat ashamed that I'd let myself go so badly.

He and I had worked so damn hard last year to get me #thinforbali.

And I'd thrown it all away!

And for what? I ask you.

Who the fuck would know. 

I shared with him that things had gotten pretty bad.

"How bad?"

"So bad that you're not allowed to take my measurements or any 'before' shots".

"That bad, huh?"

"Yup!"

"Are we working towards a specific event?"

He knows me so well.

I explained what it was.

And how long we had.

He emitted a long low whistle.

Which I said I found discouraging.

"I am not completely beyond hope, you know!!"

"So what do you want to achieve by then?"

"I want to be so thin that when I walk in they'll all gasp and say: Oh my God, is that Victoria Beckham?' "

He roared.

"I'm not joking".

"You're a bit too hairy for that", he joked.

"Well, if that's the only obstacle you see then it shouldn't be too difficult."

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#memories

So that was the last time I'd seen any of them.

Skulking away from my alma mater, having been busted doing coke in the toilets.

And now I was three months away from seeing them all again.

And I was the size of a house.

Drugs.

Yo-yo dieting.

Am I the Elvis Presley of my year?

The Christina Onassis?

If only I was that rich and glamorous.

No.

I'm just a fat fuck who used to have a drug problem.

I'd be happy with being the Lindsay Lohan.

At least she's thin.

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#horror

So the school reunion is drawing near.

In fact it's next weekend.

The night of Election Day.

Oh Joy.

A bunch of 40+, presumably overweight, presumably successful men who haven't seen each other for 25 years, all talking politics.

I predict there will be the usual mix of what @mother_dearest calls 'armchair socialists', the odd green, and a very capital L liberal sprinkling of successful business types, with overprivileged backgrounds and a sense of entitlement.

My political conversation topics will be limited to Marriage Equality and how elegant are both Marie Bashir and Quentin Bryce.

Of course some of them have seen each other since leaving school.

There have been numerous reunions, and many of the Old Boys, as they so quaintly call themselves, have retained solid friendships, even marrying each other's sisters and now sending their children to the same schools, and sitting on various Foundation Committees.

I have maintained, and regained, good friendships with about half a dozen old school mates, and am in fact extremely close with two of them.

@little_jewish_boy who I have known since the age of four.

I was best man at his wedding.

He now owns a very successful software company and lives in wedded bliss in the inner west with @alternative_jewish_wife, and @three_little_princesses.

He is coming with me.

Partners and wives not invited.

Thank God.

I'd have had to invite @cute_cousin along to pretend.  

The other is @trust_fund_kid, aka @denoodle, who is somewhat of an Instagram celebrity.

Needless to say, he is not coming.

I expressed my disappointment at this to @little_jewish_boy, who quite rightly declared: "If he did come he would be the only 43 year old Bondi hipster in the room, and I don't think he'd have much in common with the other guys".

Indeed.

At least I would have some moral support.

I had, though, seen a large group of my alumni 15 years ago.

At the ten year reunion.

I had been a complete nervous wreck in the lead-up but I'd been determined to attend.

So I fortified myself.

With two stiff drinks before arriving.

A full packet of Silk Cut in hand.

A new Armani suit.

And a gram of coke in the inside jacket pocket of said suit.

It was a sit down dinner in the foyer of the school auditorium.

About 120 of the 200 ex-students present.

I had arrived early to give myself some control over who I sat with.

The coke made me loquacious and entertaining.

And also suppressed my appetite quite considerably.

I barely touched my food.

Fuelling rumours that my quite substantial weight loss since school days somehow had something do with an eating disorder.

I was OK with that.

Between main course and dessert I felt the coke wearing off, and with it my confidence, and much of my interest in anything anybody else had to say.

So I excused myself and headed to the loo, the door to which was in full view of the entire party.

I took myself to a vacant cubicle, and cut myself a line the size of a tampon.

I rolled up a fifty and with one almighty hoovering gesture, shoved the lot up one nostril.

Ah.

Heaven.

Until I heard from a neighbouring cubicle: "Oh yeah, snort that cocaine."

Followed by a snigger.

And I am sure a disapproving shake of the head.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

What do I do?

Do I race out really quickly, risking a possible face to face encounter with the witness, thereby eradicating all hope of not being identified as the phantom snorter.

Or do I stay here for a few minutes longer, and hope that there will be enough to-ing and fro-ing from the loos, that I will be able to slip out incognito, the puzzle going unsolved.

I went for option B.

Stood there for what seemed an eternity.

Apart from the sound of the door as my accuser left, not a single other soul used the loo.

I was then worried that if it was noted that I'd been in there for such a long time that perhaps somebody would think I'd been in there for ages doing a massive shit.

I think the shame of that would have been even worse. 

So i decided that so much time had passed that my cubicle-neighbour would have gone back to his table and forgotten all about it.

And that it was therefore safe to exit.

I was very sadly mistaken.

As soon as I made my re-entry to the party, a round of applause erupted, many of the diners wiping their noses in exaggerated gestures, and making very loud sniffing noises.

There were chortles, there were disapproving shakes of the heads and a few bemused guys who had the decency to cast their eyes downwards as I passed.

Luckily for me, the geeks at the table at which I was seated, were looking around in bewilderment, genuinely not knowing what had transpired.

This brought me some relief, however, did little to lessen the extreme redness of face that I could feel.

So on the pretence of having a cigarette, I left the table, and exited to the playground, with drink in hand as a sign that I would return.

But as soon as I'd reached a dark corner, I gently put down the glass and quietly slipped away.


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#fat

I'm sure I've used this title before.

It's a recurring hashtag in my life.

But this time it carries a lot more weight.

Things have taken on mammoth proportions.

It's the reason you haven't heard from me for such a long time.

I've been busy.

Eating.

Like never before.

But now something has to change.

Or I'll be making a public appearance of a very different kind.

On midnight television.

One of those chilling exposes on fat people.

Too obese to leave the house.

So they knock down the walls.

Airlifting them out of their apartment.

Taking them to hospital.

In one of those giant slings they use to transport killer whales to Sea World.

Not the kind of sling I'd be generally used to.

And the killer whales aren't fused to a sofa.

Covered in pizza boxes.

The remote controls lost in the folds of fat.

Who's bringing me the food I hear you ask?

The guys from Doughboy.

It's conveniently located right downstairs.

They don't even need to get out their scooters.

They've got keys to my apartment.

But no more.

Things are going to change.

Or return to how they were.

I was thin once.

So now I'm looking to the past for inspiration.

As my even further past comes back to haunt me.

I've recently received notice of a school reunion.

25 years.

Terrifying I know.

If you think it's surprising to read, imagine how surprising it is to me to experience.

25 years out of school and I've only just worked out what I want to do when I grow up.

25 years out of private school.

One of those all male bastions of tradition guaranteed to generate feelings of exclusion in the gay kids.

As well as in the fat kids.

I was the gay fat kid in one of these institutions.

Sydney Grammar no less.

From whence all students are catapulted to success within about 3 minutes of completing school.

It took me two decades.

So I'm determined to face my tormentors.

No longer fat.

Still definitely gay.

And with at least a facade of success.

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#masked man

That night saw me attending a masquerade ball.
Well I'd like to say it was a ball.
Really it was a party.
In two rooms.
Of a pub.
And I no longer fitted into the outfit I'd planned to wear.
Had to swap my light coloured slim fitting Vivienne Westward shirt for a loose fitting black Armani tee.
Under a jacket that used to do up.
The fact that I'd consumed approximately 5 litres of alcohol in the preceding 96 hours probably didn't help.
Nor, I imagine, would the daily calorie intake which I estimate has found its way somewhere to the 4,500 mark.
I was, however, happy with my solarium tan.
Which worked beautifully with my all black ensemble.
Gotta love the minimising effect of black and tan.
And I was hoping that the upward sweep and sparkle in my mask would draw attention away from my bulging waistline.
It seemed to.
And let's face it, once I got a few glasses of bubbles under that already over-stretched belt I was no longer concerned about my waistline.
To the point I imagined that it was actually fine.
And despite being the only gay man at the party felt sure that all other male party-goers were finding me irresistible.
Yeah, I'm at a party where everybody's faces are covered in sequins, feathers and glitter and I'm the only poofter.
This is typical for me.
But as I said I remained undeterred.
But all to no avail.
For despite numerous drunken advances at mysterious masked men I left alone.
I did not, however, arrive home alone.
Although I did go straight there.
And before you ask, no I didn't sleep with the cab driver.
As if I'd do that.
Anymore.
But I did meet a very handsome young man in the queue for the cabs.
Outside the Sheaf.
On New South Head Road.
In Double Bay.
I was still wearing my mask.
He was standing right beside me.
And also going to Potts Point.
It made sense to share the cab.
And apparently my bed.
In a manner of speaking.
Although I wasn't aware that things were heading that way until we arrived at my place.
And when he jumped out of the cab with me I thought it was because he didn't have the money to go any further.
So I was a little surprised when he followed me into the foyer of my building.
I didn't mind.
He was kinda hot.
In a surprising sort of way.
And by surprising I suppose I mean jumped-on-me-while-climbing-the-stairs-and-pinned-me-up-against-the-wall.
Which was great.
So yeah, I kinda lied.
He didn't actually make it to my bed.
But he fucked me on the stairs.
Which was even better.
Because he left when it was over.
Which is just the way I like it.
And my mask stayed on the whole time.
I think it's gonna be my new fetish. 

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#good times

So my mother was calling me.
I was meant to be spending the day with her and my sister.
My mother had called it A Girls' Day Out.
It was midday.
I had got in at 6 30am.
God knows when my trade had left.
All that remained was a dribble of blood from a tooth I cracked and loosened when things got a little rough.
"I'll be about an hour" I said, in my best drag-queen-cum-phone-sex-worker-in-the-morning-voice.
"I've only just woken up, and I didn't get in until after 6"
Sound of slightly disapproving sigh.
"That's fine. We're at David Jones. We'll just walk down to Opera Bar".
I had missed the shopping component of the day.
At least I would be in time for the eating and drinking component.
Because what my body really needed at that point was more alcohol.
Really?
And I had some major obstacles to hurdle before getting there.
Like getting out bed.
Having a shower.
And putting together an outfit that felt loose fitting enough for my alcohol and food swollen body, while bringing colour to a sallow cheek, and looking appropriate for a civilised luncheon.
And that I felt sexy in.
Because you just never know.
I did manage to overcome these but not quite in the allotted time frame.
While preparing a response to the challenge: "Haven't you grown out of staying out all night?"
And it was lucky that I had because they asked it unison before my bum had even hit the seat.
And just so you understand the full impact of this, imagine a visual symphony of blonde hair, pearls, shopping bags, and concerned looks from behind sunglasses.
I was quite happy with my response: "I knew you'd ask me this, so I've prepared an answer: I've recently come to the conclusion that it's not necessarily something you grow out of, because it's just part of who I am, and what I enjoy doing."
"Oh well, as long as you're having a good time, then I suppose that's OK.
Would you like a glass of wine?"
Thanks Mum.
What I neglected to tell them was that so many of these nights start out as well intentioned low-key evenings.
But as the booze intake increases, my care about what the next day holds decreases.
In direct proportion.
And the enjoyment of friends augments into a false camaraderie with pretty much anyone you meet.
And that it's not long before you start looking at anybody as a possible sexual partner.
Tossing up between Mr Right and Mr Right Now.
And when the night is still relatively young you feel like there's hours up your sleeve.
But then before you know it it's almost 5am and the lights are about to come on.
And by then your options are limited.
As is your judgement.
Which does make it easier.
There's less competition.
The odds are in your favour.
Although the quality of talent may not be.
And at this stage you've given up looking for a husband.
And you're possibly not even up for the root.
But you'll be damned if your ego is gonna let you go home alone.
Even if it's just so you're seen getting in a cab with somebody else.
Or that the next morning your regular barista can raise an eyebrow and a smirk when you order an uncharacteristic two coffees.
All this in the name of a #goodtime.

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#action

I managed to bounce back after Thursday night's little episode.

Although I did spend most of Friday in a stupor.

Reeling from alcohol.

And shock.

Older.

And fatter.

Which lessened somewhat the previous excitement I'd been feeling in anticipation of my Friday night.

I was to participate in a reality TV cooking show.

It's not going to be aired until January or February, and a signed confidentiality agreement prohibits me saying more.

Although I am probably in breach already.

But in case I'm not, I won't say any more.

And it's only relevant because being told you look fatter and older than your Grindr pics does not make you feel good about being filmed eating.

But luckily I was also filmed drinking.

Well that bit was maybe not so lucky.

The fact that I was drinking helped me accept being filmed.

While eating.

Although if my drunken raptures about the food are televised I will die.

Of shame.

So.

Unbelievably.

Gay.
But fun was had by all.
And I was fed and watered, courtesy of a major network.

I had thought that that would be all I needed in a night out.

But @fab_flatmate and @former_model were with me.

So we went to Bootleg.

I feel like I go there a lot.

Despite having gorged ourselves earlier, we ordered a cheese platter.

And another bottle of wine.

And then I went to Palms.

And then I went to the Shift.

And then I went to the Colombian.
All the while believing I would still make it to my 8 30am Saturday spin class.

Until I went to the Oxford.

Where I finally picked up.

In the smoking room.

Yep.

Classy.

At 6am.

He was young.

Cute.

And clearly completely out of it.

As he willingly came home with me.

But then by the time we get to the end of the night we'll all pretty much go home with anybody.

And it can be so much easier to pick up when there are fewer to choose from.
And everybody seems to know that it's now or never.
So I took him home.
And he was a total bottom.
Which is kind of challenging.
Because that's kind of where I find myself as well.
But his willing submission was enough of a turn on for me to fuck him.
Although I find these days that it takes quite a lot of concentration to maintain the arousal when I am the active partner.
And I may expand upon this at some later time.
But with this one I found that roughing him up a little helped things along.
I am particularly fond of biting the nipples.
So that they really, really hurt.
Pulling hair is a good one too.
And like a lot of Gen-Y's he had enough hair to pull.
Which he seemed to like me doing.
Especially when he was face down.
But I prefered him on his back.
So I could spit in his face.
Slap it too.
He was loving it.
Or so I thought.
Until one of those slaps was just a little too rough.
And I cracked one of his teeth.
Loosened it a little too.
Yep.
With a single bare hand.
Through his bearded cheek.
How is that even possible?
Needless to say, it put a dampener on things.
We dozed off.
And when I awoke he was gone.
All that remained of him some dribbled blood on my white pillowcase.
And my mobile was ringing.
It was my mother...


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#picture this

Still foggy from my Big Night In last Wednesday night, I ventured out again on the Thursday night.
On a date.
Although to be honest, calling it a date is a bit of a stretch.
Strictly speaking, it was actually a hook-up.
Grindr.
But I didn't go to his house.
Nor did he come to mine.
Which is in fact my usual approach.
Of course there's always the whole "if I don't like him or I feel uncomfortable then it's easier to leave theirs than it is for me to get them to leave mine" internal conversation.
But I always feel more in control at mine.
I know where everything is.
Fire escape.
Hidden baseball bat in cupboard.
Panic button.
Panic room.
However, notwithstanding my mental preparation for the worst possible outcome, the recent spate of app-supported dates going horribly wrong has me seriously re-thinking the whole coming-to-my-place thing.
Best to meet in a public space.
A very public space.
Full of my friends...
The Green Park.
Most unimaginative.
But guaranteed to be housing at least 6 of my nearest and dearest at any given time.
I had shown @mr_grindr_date's photos to @cool_cat and @cute_boy.
Both of whom assured me they had seen him out and about.
In numerous venues.
For several years.
But none of us recognized him when he walked in the pub.
Which is hardly surprising.
Because it wasn't him.
And the only reason I knew it was / wasn't him was because he came up and said hi, introduced himself and started chatting in such a way that demonstrated he knew exactly who I was, and quite a lot about me.
But he was not the man in the pics.
And I don't mean he appeared a little different to his pics.
He was a completely different man.
More handsome and better looking than the man in the pics.
And noticeably younger.
Completely bizarre.
The man in the pics had been very nice looking too.
But not in this league.
Although the physical outcome was better I was a little creeped out by the situation.
And therefore very happy to have decided to meet in a public space.
The personality I was getting, however, seemed to match perfectly with the one I had gleaned from our online and texting conversations.
So it seemed OK to bring up the change of pics things.
My friends quizzical looks had turned to thumbs up signs.
So I brought it up.
"Why would you have pictures of somebody else? somebody older, less fit and less good looking?"
"So that the reality is a pleasant surprise".
"But you look nothing alike, and besides, I liked the look of that other man. I wouldn't have been here otherwise."
"Are you disappointed?"
"No, just surprised. This has never happened to me before."
"Because I'm disappointed."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me.. I'm disappointed."
"In me?"
"Yep."
"But the photos you saw were of me.
And they're quite recent."
"They do you justice though. You obviously know how to work your best angle."
Now I was getting the shits: "Excuse me! At least they're me!" 
"Yeah, but you don't look as good as your pictures."
What do you mean?" I practically screeched, dreading the answer.
"Well you look older, for a start".
I died a little.
"And you're definitely fatter".
Older.
Fatter.
I had no words.
I just slowly rose from my seat.
Skulled the rest of my drink.
And left with as much dignity as possible.
Until I reached the door.
Where I turned around.
Flipped him the bird.
And yelled across the bar: "No I will not piss in your mouth. Go fuck yourself."

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#relief

Such a bad idea to have a Phenergan on a school night.

Sure they knock you out really quickly.

But they leave you really kind of foggy the next day too.

Pretty much all day long.

I've only just emerged from the mist.

Clearly there was no spin class this morning.

But I am at that Elizabeth Taylor / Carrie Fisher stage in my life where I just can't seem to get to sleep on my own.

And I am kind of OK with that.

Works with the image of Trashy Glamour that I have unwittingly cultivated for myself.

But my doctor is refusing to give me any more Temazapan. 

Ever.

I had first asked for them when I went to London at the beginning of July.

For a week. 

Insisting they are an essential part of successful jet lag management.

He had seen reason in this.

And I became completely addicted.

To the point where I needed two just to feel sleepy.

I then went to Bali in late July.

And feigned two more overseas trips per month for August and September.

He didn't believe me when I went back a couple of weeks ago, asking for more.

He refused to prescribe.

Called me on my addiction.

And threatened to tell my mother.

Oh yeah, he's my cousin.

Damn.

Lucky an uncharacteristic bout of chronic hay favour at the beginning of Spring had the chemist recommending Phenergan.

Knocks you for six.

And is available over the counter.

#winning.

And has been helping me quieten the voices and dull the pain ever since @dr_cousin stopped being so helpful.

It's particularly nice with a glass of wine.

Or indeed a bottle.

Which is kind of where I left off.

I'm not drinking.

Until Friday of next week.

Even staying home alone these days is a risky activity.

But something I'm going to have to push myself through.

So after my Big Night In last Wednesday, I backed up with a Big Night Out.

Thursday.

Friday.

Saturday.

And Sunday.

And I really can't explain what happened to my Monday.

But let me think about it all and get back to you.

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#cycle

OK, so tonight's spin class was the first exercise I've done since last Thursday night.

And it required quite the effort to get there.

I have been hung over every day since that same Thursday.

And I hadn't even gone out the preceding night.
I'd done a spin class that night too.

Which I followed with dinner of two Snickers Bars.
And two bottles of Pinot Gris (my new preferred grape variety).
A big night in.
As for the Snickers Bars, this is also a new thing for me.
But fast becoming something of a staple.
And may very well, therefore, go some way towards explaining a universal shrinkage of all my shirts.
Although I'm not quite ready to admit this.
I'm still blaming the washing machine.
Which considering the number of spin classes I've been doing lately is not entirely unreasonable.
Because they are supposed to be the most effective weight loss exercise ever.
And I've been doing at least 5 a week.
It's the only exercise I can do at the moment.
In my over enthusiastic bid to get #thinforbali all those months ago I uncovered some minor previous shoulder injury.
Which I ignored.
And pumped myself into my bikini body.
And now I can barely move that shoulder.
So after months of pain and frustrated body building I had an X-ray and ultrasound last week.
Ultrasound.
I know.
Am I pregnant?
No.
Diagnosis?
Arthritis.
OMFG.
And the treatment?
A steroid injection.
Not the great thing you may think.
You may as well have told me hormone replacement therapy.
#old
And not coping.
Perhaps explaining the drinking.
Which has actually increased since I finally, finally, finally gave up smoking.
Well technically I had kinda sorta given up smoking three and a half years ago.
When I started chewing nicotine gum.
And to which I had been seriously addicted ever since.
Of course I have been an on-again-off-again smoker since the age of 10.
But I digress.
I'll tell you about that later.
This is about my drinking.
Which has only been serious in recent years.
And the exercise regime that co-exists strangely therewith...
But, you know what?
My phenergan's just kicked in.
So I'm gonna have to resume tomorrow...

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