Thursday was never going to work, was it?
A morning meeting an hour away did at least mean time to wolf down a decent breakfast of mushroom omelette on brown toast washed down with detoxifying peppermint tea.
But a series of business meetings throughout the day meant there was no chance of making it to the gym in office hours.
Lunch consisted of a chicken and mushroom Pot Noodle to sustain me, drawing a screwed up face from the office manager who fails to understand why anyone would put such a thing near their body.
Because the healthy beef wrap, yoghurt and fruit packed by my wife had another purpose. It would be by Midnight feast that night.
Oh yes.
Because having decided this was a good week to join the gym I had overlooked the fact that I had an awards bash to attend at a local hotel.
And just to taunt my whale-like frame, the same hotel housing my new gym.
Yes, you can just taste the irony, can’t you.
However I viewed this as an opportunity and booked a room, a very nice one it was too.
My theory being that if I was at least in the hotel I could sneak either a quick session before the bash or at the very least, an early morning stint the next day.
My schedule being what it was, there was no chance of an earl evening work out.
Instead I managed to, just, shovel myself into my kilt and other Highland dress wear before repairing the the nearest bar to catch up with some former colleagues.
I admit, I had a pint, but refused five others in the 45-minutes we were there.
At my host’s table, I spent the first 90-minutes nursing glasses of spring water as they drained bottle after bottle of red and white wine.
My resolve was strong.
Yet as the speeches droned on, I reckoned the one glass of Pinot Noir wouldn’t go ary.
Of course as soon as the red liquid reduced in the sparkling glass, it was topped up by our ever generous host.
And so followed another, and another.
Even still I was fending off the urge to dive into the free beer on offer.
I turned down the starter dish to compensate for the wine, enjoyed the main of chicken and vegetables, before being faced with dessert.
Tiramisu. A slab of it too.
Now I really like Tiramisu. But I knew it would be fatal to the night.
Clearly it had been freshly made, you can tell by the way the cream softens, the coffee drips.
And all around the table came cries of “Mmmmmmmmmoooh” and “Oh God, that’s lovely” from my fellow guests, clearly unaware of my pledge to better myself.
Then it happened. The words of doom. “Oh, you really must try it….”
My brain computed that it would be rude not to and a super-sized spoonful or two later, it was gone.
And so too any hope that my body would survive anything like a sustained calorie attack.
More wine, you bet.
But not, of course, without at least one moment of ritual humiliation just to make sure I knew that karma really was watching.
A long lost colleague greeting me with the cry ‘Oh my God, it is you. I didn’t recognise you there. What happened, you’ve become a porker‘.
The only saving grace being that I am on a health regime, and as a result of her rather candid comments, will do all I can to make good the extra four stone I’m wearing since we last met.
But I’m afraid she will remain an ugly forever, a relic that not even sandblasting could cure.
It was then, of course, that I dived into the free beer ahead of a 4am finish.
Suffice to say, it probably knocked any last, lingering hope of doing good for my body this week.
But if nothing else, it did at least offer a little crumb of comfort the soul.
And a renewed determination that next week would be better.
