Following the last posting, Giles let slip some of his longer term plans. By the time the Tough Guy comes around, it looks like you'll be able to witness some of the preparation. If watching a sweaty chunky bloke fall off monkey bars is your particular "thing", that is.
Apparently, up at Primrose Hill, a place positioned annoyingly conveniently between home and Webster's House of, well, you know, there's a small assault course-y adventure playground. Come January, just as it gets really cold, I'll be warming up as per usual in Harley Street, and then jogging through Regents Park to the aforementioned and having a good old clamber about. And then jogging home.
Here's the thing though. After a month (and the extra bit) of regular work outs, while it sounds horrible, I think that's my couch potato / film critic / historic-self speaking. The key thing is I believe that, by December / January, I'll actually be able to cope with it. The difference in strength and basic fitness in a month has been remarkable: it seems very feasible that a further five months could get me running from the West End to Finchley and throw small children off their playground en route.
The last week has been an interesting one. With Giles away, my mission was to walk briskly as regularly as possible. Typically, that was hampered by the old ankle injury flaring up a little - walking boots, uneven earth on the allotment and a stupid lack of concentrtaion on my part - and some nasty bug that appeared over the weekend. Instead, I had to focus on watching what I ate. Yes, I know, that seems to contradict the original non-adjustment-of-lifestyle plan but, frankly, I really can't eat what I used to. Not that I actually ate that much. I know I look like the sort of bloke who has 14 bacon sandwiches for breakfast, 93 packets of Hob Nobs and a pantry that would make Gillian McKeith have a heart-attack (oh please...) but I didn't. Part of my frustration was going out with much slimmer friends, watching them polish off eight pints, their own dinner and assorted leftovers, and never putting on a pound. I'd eat lots of vegetables, walk a good couple of miles a day, keep a check on alcohol consumption... and the middle aged spread just kept coming.
That though seems to have been arrested. I'm not breathing in when I do up my jeans. I'm getting into shirts I've not worn for a year and the target outfit - a very slimfit, funky shirt Angela brought me back from Florida this year and some really nice Timberland trousers I could never do up - looks like an achievable target. And looking on the bright side, the nasty bug of the last couple of days has, er, been quite good for weight loss...
Anyway, it's back to the gym this morning and I'm raring to go. And I never thought I'd be saying that a couple of months back.