Soilman

Huge thrill this morning. Managed to take my morning shower without the bathroom light on.

“Pray, why?” you may ask. “Is this some new eroto-luminance perversion popular with the allotmenteering classes?”

Not exactly. It’s one of my personal winter foibles. You see, the day I can shower at 7am without artificial light is the day I know the sun is rising significantly earlier.

I’ve tried a few times over the last three weeks. Mostly with cartoon results – stubbed toes, histrionic slips with wild, flailing arms. I almost gave up last Tuesday when I spent 5 mins in pitch blackness trying to work up a lather with the soapdish.

But today, I managed it. Only shaving was a serious challenge: I look like Sweeney Todd’s practice dummy.

Still, the point is made: Spring’s bloody close.

For any SADsters out there who track these things (like me), today is a momentous day: the end of the darkest period of winter.

I’ve never been diagnosed with SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder), but a diagnosis feels superfluous. My symptoms tally perfectly with the medical dictionary.

Plus everyone says I’m a sad bastard. Ergo etc.

Anyway, the point is that mid-November to the end of January is the grimmest, darkest time. From now on, the days lengthen fast.

This does wonders for my mood. I get out of bed with a spring in my step. Even when I’m regularly visiting the gym*.

*The author wishes to make clear that this statement in no way implies any recommendation or endorsement, specific or general, of regular gym-going. On the contrary. As heretofore indicated from time to time, he fucking hates it.

Started the exercise regime today. Did a 5-mile speed walk with my sister around Bushey Park. Lovely day, perfect weather… and only one blister. Enjoyed it, and was relieved that it didn’t feel difficult. Not bad for a soft, fat, unfit old git.

It won’t do, of course. I can’t find that kind of time every day, so the gym will unfortunately be reintroduced to the Soilman timetable. But hey, into every life some rain must fall. It’s mostly chocolate that’s been falling into mine of late.

Many thanks to everyone for all the thoughtful and interesting exercise suggestions.

It’s come to my attention that I’m a fat bastard.

I’ve been ignoring the evidence for some time, but it’s no longer possible. When I hauled my flubbery arse on to the scales just before Christmas, they broke. Warnings don’t come much clearer.

So: The new year diet (check) and the exercise regime (oh shit).

I hate exercise. Or rather, I hate the formal, trainers-and-gym-kit kind. Not just because it’s intensely boring and painful (although it is), but because it’s such a waste of time. And so fucking undignified.

There is always something more profitable, useful, helpful or intellectually worthwhile to be done than bobbing up and down on a cross-trainer blowing buckets of sweat and snot over passers-by.

Sadly, though, something has to give; otherwise I’ll be the Michelin man. Here, then, are the options.

The gym

Pros: It’s convenient(-ish). I can do an hour after work most days without buggering up my life too much.

Cons: See above. Plus I fucking hate it.

Walking/hiking

Pros: Nice scenery, less agonising than running/cross-training etc, less spiritually nihilistic.

Cons: Time-consuming. Requires serious timetable alteration and sacrifice to accommodate.

Swimming

Pros: Like gym, fairly easy to fit into my timetable.

Cons: I loathe it. And I mean, really loathe it. Leaves me sweaty, dry-skinned and chlorinated. Plus you know you’ve effectively been wallowing in child’s piss (in British public pools, anyway). Just the thought makes me want to heave.

‘Hobbies’

… by which I mean taking up something physical that’s also an entertainment. Dancing, for instance, which I used to be reasonably good at… and quite enjoyed.

Pros: Can be fun. Usually better with a partner or friend, though. Which is hard to arrange.

Cons: It’s difficult (and pricey) to do this sort of thing more than one night a week, which lowers its calorie-burning/exercise potential.

Conclusion: Haven’t reached one. The more I think about it, the longer I’m not doing anything – so it’s tempting to ponder longer.

Any suggestions?

So where’s the snow post? The one moaning about the weather? Surely the blog wouldn’t be complete without it?

Sorry. Refuse to do it. Harsh and unforgiving views etc.

“Cold Weather In Winter Shocker”… it’s not a headline, and it’s not a national emergency. Recommend the Norman Tebbit response to such crises: Get over it and get on yer bike. It won’t kill us.

And to those who’ve been panic buying in supermarkets, I can only sigh and say this: You’re a bunch of spineless, dimwitted tossers. I hope you choke on your stocks of unnecessary food.

Shit. I did the snow post after all.

The ground is frozen hard as iron today, so digging impossible (thank God).

Thus had a wander around Hampton Court Palace. In summer, it’s black with tourists and makes you wish you’d brought a machine gun. In winter, delightful. Hardly a soul about.

We molested swans, poked ducks with sticks dipped in dog turd and generally availed ourselves of the usual amusements of a sunny day out in midwinter.

On the way out, there was the additional pleasure of watching brain-dead, overweight holidaymakers falling on their arses on the ghastly ice rink. It looks nice in the publicity pix, but don’t be fooled: more than 10 minutes wearing the rented skates and you need your feet amputating. Plus they pack you on the (slushy) ice as tight as penguins in Antarctica.

But hey, it’s a nice day out if you like breathing other folks’ BO and repeatedly falling in a cold puddle.

This morning I’m starting to look forward to my Christmas holiday. Which is like looking forward to sex with a dwarf. It’s probably better than no sex… but depressing and awfully short.

Actually, I’ve decided that anticipating holidays is the most enjoyable part. The holiday itself is over in seconds, and you spend at least the first five days of it waking at 6am as if it’s a work day (I do, anyway; my body clock is as inflexible and rigidly programmed as a North Korean public holiday).

The Christmas holiday has a special angst, of course. There’s the expense of gift giving… and receiving (“Gosh. A musical sock drawer tidy. Just what I always wanted”).

This year, though, is special. In fact, it’s a triumph. By dint of quiet diplomacy over 12 months, I have delicately concluded a no-gift pact with everyone I know – even family.

The momentous outcome is simply this: For the first time in 42 years, I will be buying no Christmas gifts whatsoever. Yep, you read right. That means no shopping, no queueing, no shit.

So think on that while you’re trying to decipher the inarticulate grunting of a spotty 18-year-old cashier clerk in John Lewis, or hovering over a skid-marked public toilet seat after getting caught short in Tesco.

In horrible contrast to all your suffering, I shall be ensconced at home watching porn (perhaps Christmas-themed – “Jiggle Belles” etc) and stuffing my face with Leonidas’ best.

Cheers.

PS All comedy Christmas porn movie titles gratefully received

Getting there. I’m still weeks behind, but hey. Nobody’s perfect.

Given a few dry weekends, I should be able to sort the digging and manuring by the end of January. The biggest challenge now is finding room for another compost heap. My bin’s stuffed.

Anyone out there able to put their hand on their heart and say they’re fully ready for next season?

To adopt an expression more familiar to my US readers: The weather sucks a big one.

Jeez, but it’s rained here. I don’t live in Flood Central, thank God, but I’m living like a rat in a hole. Can’t go out without getting soaked, whatever the day, whatever the hour.

The most irritating consequence is that my vegetable plot has had zero attention for almost three weeks; the only times I’ve not been working, it’s been pissing. Extra hard.

So many apologies for the absence, on this gardening blog, of any gardening.

… and so my thoughts turn to Christmas.

I wish they wouldn’t. I loathe Christmas. It’s an ordeal that I rank up there with unblocking the lavatory, protracted root canal work and proctological examination (which last I have yet to endure, but visualising the procedure’s psychological effect demands minimal imaginative chutzpah).

There is one small glint of moonlight in the morgue, however: by some horticultural miracle, last year’s potted tree is still with us – just.

Granted, it’s lost half its foliage. But at least I can save £15 by re-using the bugger. Assuming I stand it against a wall.

It’s got me thinking about other things I could re-use. Hey, why not? If you’re hating it anyway, why not claw back a few quid on the deal?

I’m figuring a bit of glue and concentration could probably resurrect the Xmas crackers, if you remember to save the pieces. And the Christmas cake’s a dead cert. Nobody eats the fucking thing anyway, so they’ll never notice if I wheel out the same cake 10 years in a row.

I’m inspired by the Empress Dowager with her 100 dishes at every meal. The eunuchs knew she only touched the same 10 favourites every day, so the rest were served up, untouched, week after week… until they were rotting under the porcelain tops.

That’s my kind of hospitality.