I’ve got a lot on my plate (As it were)

I have been lying in my bed farting, rotating my ankle, scratching and berating myself. The self-haircutting pathologist is asleep, dreaming of rabbits and lobsters, as he usually does; sometimes he emits a squeak as the dream-lobster tweaks his nose. My leg is itchy; my tummy hurts; I am thirsty. I am fretting.

There has been much to contend with in the last five months, much of it awfully nice and for all the right reasons (moving to Canada), some of it sad (leaving idiot friends and family); some it downright fucking annoying (dealing with The Royal Bank of Scotland Fleet Street branch). Most of it is self-indulgent tosh, mind you, including:

1. Moving from London (England) to Montreal (Canada)

2. Trying to find a new job

3. Finding a job

4. Waiting for a work permit

5. Realising I only know 3 people in the whole of Canada

6. Seeing if I can live with someone I’ve had a long distance relationship with for a year (I can)

7. Leaving everyone I know on the other side of the Atlantic

8. Starting new job; not being sure what job is for. Realising they do things differently here.

9. Commuting from house in country to Montreal half the week

10. And Montreal to Toronto the other half

11. And sometimes to New York as well*

12. Being in hotels 3 nights a week with the TV jammed on the CBC

13. Trying to find a flat in Montreal

14. Finding a flat in Montreal (to be in when I am not in the country or Toronto)

15. Remembering I have a flat in London; remembering I need to move everything from there to here into the next (unfurnished) flat I will have to get in six months’ time

16. Selling flat in London (anyone want it? One bedroom garden flat off Brixton Hill)

17. Remembering also need to find home for cat in London (anyone want it? Old, fat, annoying, mad)

18. Trying to work out how I can get flat emptied by Pickford’s, decorated and on the market in a week

19. Going to shops, cleaning, washing, cooking, lying down, talking to each other, etc - i.e., going about the normal business of living

20. Trying not to dwell too much on the fact that the Royal Bank of Scotland at 1 Fleet Street are a bunch of useless cunts who, as every day passes, make my life increasingly unbearable, reflecting in some large way the works of Kafka

21. Dealing with the Inland Revenue (UK version)

22. Trying to open a bank account

23. Trying to get Quebec medical insurance and driving license

24. Wishing I had a mink coat**

25. Allegedly going to the gym and losing weight.

But still, self-indulgent or not, all this is doing my fucking nut in. I’ve got a lot of stuff to do. I’m tired. I can’t concentrate. And that’s just with a list of stuff-that-needs-doing, some-of-it-3,500-miles-away. How anyone who, for example, works and has kids loses weight is a matter of wonder and awe.

Yer see, it takes time, all of this. I reckon losing weight takes up an average of an hour and half a day, when you take everything into account - all the planning and shopping and cooking and exercising. I was a cretin not to take advantage of the four months I had off work, and I haven’t got an excuse for the fact I’ve lost a pound in three weeks, no, but it occurred to me this evening (as I wrote a version of this list on a bit of paper) that sometimes the time just isn’t right to make a really big effort to lose weight.

I think you have to be in a good place mentally (man) to do this. Have your business in order, as far as it can be; have yourself organised; know what you’re doing, as far as you can, for the next few months. It’s easier if you’re not knackered, if you’ve got a routine that you can either make or work around; if you’ve got support at home; if you live near shops that are reasonably-priced; if you like cooking, and can do it; if you live in a temperate climate. (Do not underestimate what a pain the arse everything is when it is -10 or below, the pavements are covered in ice and you can’t step out the front door without falling in a snowdrift.)

It’s hard for a million reasons, we all know that. (It’s hard enough trying not to eat without simultaneously dealing with all the stuff that made you eat in the first place.) Chuck in the practicalities of it, and it becomes harder. It’s not an excuse, mind you; just see this post as a sort of kind-but-reasonable ‘be easy on yourself’, particularly if your life is otherwise a bit complicated at the moment.

As for me, I am self-administering ironic high-fives if I get to the gym twice a week, and I trudge 20 minutes there and back through -15, horizontal snow and icy pavements to get lunch that is not made mainly of cheese. I live with a kind man who can cook, and who reminded me on Saturday that it was obvious I hadn’t given up, and that I’d get there eventually.

Which I will. In the meantime, I am taking sensible measures, e.g. only eating cake on Friday, using the hotel gym(s), and only having one night a week where I don’t limit delicious wine. For the next few eeks, if I lose weight, I lose weight. If I don’t, I don’t. What’s important is not putting any weight on, not beating myself up, and not losing my bloody mind.

* I am well aware this may sound jet-setty and glamourous, particularly if you are currently serving on the butcher’s counter in Asda in Croydon. All that happens, though, is you go to an aiport, get on a plane, get off the plane, go to a meeting, leave the meeting, go and sleep, get up, go to another meeting, get on another plane and repeat the process indefinitely. And no, now is not the time to send in tutty little comments about global warming, and yes, it is better than working on the butcher’s counter in Asda, I would imagine, unless you really, really like meat.

** Don’t even think about it.

Top tip: spend an entire Sunday cooking and freezing. Do enough for three weeks, or a month even. Buy veg and shit fresh in the week if you can. Eat it. Take lunch to work. Eat it. Oh, and if anyone wants good freezer recipes - or ideas for lunches (which in my case basically goes: soup, soup, some more soup, and some soup) let me know - Katy, we could collaborate? Fucked if I know when I’ll get round to it, mind you.