Funnily enough I didn’t feel much like breakfast this morning. Nor lunch, liquid or movement. In fact I would quite happily have stayed in the comforting warmth and quiet of the shower all day.
It wasn’t a hangover, as such. Just tiredness and a gnawing disappointment that I hadn’t been able to last two days, let along a year in this pursuit of happiness.
But it had been useful, not to mention fun.
So instead of wallowing like a hippo of despair, I decided the only way was to get back on the road and head to the gym for a lung busting first solo session.
Of course an hour on the train as the previous night’s alcohol seeped from my pores put paid to the notion that I would be going anywhere fast, let alone the gym.
Lunchtime came and went as I slunk behind my computer in the corner, doing all those menial tasks I’d been putting off for months, my kit back in the corner alone and unused.
Around 3pm I decided maybe a swim would help, at least salve the conscience a little.
Then a phone call or two later and the resolve was gone. I just wanted to head home, watch some brain numbing show on TV and sloped off to bed.
On the way to the station my business partner tried to boost my morale, show his loyal support for my new health regime, by suggesting we go for a pint at the pub next door.
But I refused. I stayed firm and put. No, no, no – I could really say it – no.
He pressed on ahead, ordering a beer of choice.
I shuffled away, onto the train that would take me home, knowing that even one small victory against temptation was better than none.
And that maybe, just maybe, there is hope for me after all.
