Food diary (I)

Seymour the fat slob from Watchmen

Is there a more pathetic figure in popular culture than the fat, nerdy slob? The balding comic book guy with his cheetos and toddler dress sense reading Aquaman, the fortysomething D&D player still living in his mother’s basement, that neckbearded guy in stretchy, clingy, clingy latex at the con who has never heard of deodorant. In every intranerd fight these images are lobbied around like grenades on a battlefield; We don’t need bullies to harass us, we can do it ourselves. You can’t really insult somebody’s race, sex, gender or religion without looking like a dickhead, but you can always call somebody a fat nerd, a loser.

And if you’re a fat, sloppy eater in any piece of fiction, you’re best bet is to be the comic relief, because otherwise you’re the disgusting, revolting villain nobody respects and somebody will kill you in a particularly pathetic way at the end of the story. Especially in comics, where the occasional Kingpin is the exception amongst the larger villains, more likely to resemble the Slug.

Nevertheless, it wasn’t comics that made me fat, though they didn’t help; it was puberty. I was a svelte young god until I was about twelve; now if I still resemble a Greek god, it’s Bacchus and not this one. Over the years, slowly, I’ve grown bigger: eighty kilos, ninety, hundred, hundred and ten, hundred and twenty…

Three years ago I had to change, had to lose weight to get slim enough so that we could do that kidney transplant operation for Sandra. So I started dieting and exercising and I managed to lose ten, fifteen kilos. All it took was three-four evenings in the week going to the gym and not eating anything between meals. Oh, and of course, having the threat of Sandra dying of kidney failure hanging over me if I didn’t get slim fast enough.

No wonder perhaps that in the two years since the operation, I’ve ballooned out again, especially the last year, with her gone. Comfort eating and there’s nothing as comforting as stuffing down a Burger King combo meal with added extra hamburger, is there, even if you feel physically ill and depressed afterwards.

But the good times can’t last forever. I was coming up to one hundred and thirty kilogrammes, which was a bit too much even for me. I’ve lost some weight since, but I need to have a new incentive to do so. Hence this post. I need to know how much I’m eating each day, knowing that I’m eating too much when I am, not being able to cheat and what better way than to do so in public?

Starting today therefore I’ll be posting a food diary each day, though they’ll be a lot shorter. I’ll weight myself each week and will keep an exercise diary as well. Hopefully this will help me keep momentum going and not let me backslide into bad habits. So, without further ado:

Weight this morning: 126.7 kilogrammes.

  • Drinks morning: 3 mugs (0.25 litres) of coffee with sugar, 0.5 litres water
  • Drinks afternoon: 1 mug of coffee, 2 cups (0.125 litres) of water
  • Drinks evening: one litre light orange soda.
  • Lunch: 4 slices brown bread, 1 slice of 48+ cheese (Old Amsterdam), 2 slices of Brugse beenham, Pear quark + muesli. One can of Coke Zero
  • Dinner: Stew of lean beef, beans, onion, leeks and mushrooms.
  • Snacks: four small snack sausages, fifty kcal each.

(Inspired by Tom Spurgeon as well as Hairy Bikers.)

Books read July

Only six books read this month, mostly science fiction.

Darkland — Liz Williams
First in a duology about a far future female secret agent with psionic powers who gets an assignment to hunt down the lover who abused her years ago. Much better than it sounds.

The Apocalypse Codex — Charlie Stross
The latest in Charlie’s horror/spy thriller series, with the baddie this time being a charismatic tv preacher who is slightly more into that old time religion than is healthy.

Blue Remembered Earth — Alastair Reynolds
Featuring a near future Africa that’s not a dystopian hellhole. When their grandmother, the family matriarch dies, Sunday andd Geoffrey Akinya against their will get involved in a Solar System wide scavenger hunt for her final legacy.

Norman London — William Fitz Stephen
William Fitz Stephen wrote a hagiography of Thomas Beckett and as an introduction to that, gave a portrait of the city of London as it existed in the 11th century. This short pamphlet is build around that text, with introduction, maps and essays giving a context to it.

The British Character — Pont
A humorous collection of cartoons showing the idiosyncrasies of the British.

The Fourth Wall — Walter Jon Williams
Third novel in the Dagmar Shaw series about alternate reality gamers changing the world. Excellent, compelling.

Abide with me



Like me, Sandra had long put away the religious faith she was raised in, but, again like me, had kept her appreciation for some of the hymns she had grown up with. One of those hymns was Abide With Me, which she had been talking about only days before her death. Last night at the Olympics it was used in the tribute to the victims of the 7/7 bombings. Even without that personal connection the performance would’ve given me goosebumps, now it was enough to make me tear up.

The icing on the cake is that this hymn has a political meaning as well. It has been used at every Rugby League Challenge Cup final since 1929 and rugby league is the northern, working class version of rugby, a song held deeply by generations of miners. Using it is therefore a subtle rebuke to the legacy of Thatcher, whose heirs now rule the UK again, just like the use of Jerusalem, another of Sandra’s favourites, could be seen as a clarion call for English socialism. Whether or not this was Danny Boyle’s intent…

Eight months

So last night I came home completely stressed out, you know, with that feeling in the back of your throat as if you’d been screaming all day, heart racing so fast I thought I’d get a heart attack. At first I thought it was just a side effect of having had a busy week at work, what with everybody else on holiday, but it hadn’t been that busy or stressfull. It was only when I looked at the calendar this morning that realised what was really behind it: today it’s been eight months since Sandra died.

It’s funny. In everyday life, at work, I can hide my grief so well I largely forget it myself, but it only takes one small thing to get it back. For some reason the local supermarket has been a reliable trigger: one moment you’re looking at the frozen peas, the other caught in an ineffable melancholy. At home everything reminds me of her of course so that’s no refuge either. But it doesn’t really matter where I am; Sandra is inside of me and her memory comes back at any unguarded moment. This is not necessarily a sad thing, but the grief is still stronger than the joy of the memory.

What’s still haunting me is the anxiety of the last two years, the constant worry about whether the worst will happen and how. Now that the worst has happened, the anxiety is still there, only slowly disappearing, like land rebounding after an ice age.

So what I notice is that I still haven’t gotten some of my sharpness, my drive back, still am wondering what to do with the rest of my life now that she is gone. Which sounds like something out of a romantic, sombre pop ballad, but in real life isn’t very good to find yourself in.

Books read June

Seven books this month, mainly fiction:

Intrusion — Ken MacLeod
What if the power to make the wrong decisions is taken from you, what if you want to make your own decisions without justifying yourself to others, not want to take up the shield of a religion to justify refusing what’s for your own good?

Something Wicked this Way Comes — Ray Bradbury
Sandra gave me this as a present some years ago, because we had been talking about Bradbury for some reason; I read it after his death. A great American fantasy/horror classic, full of his peculiar brand of nostalgia without his sometimes cloying sentimentality

Testament of Youth — Vera Brittain
A book drenched in grief and sorrow from the first page, though still with somewhat of a happy ending. Vera Brittain’s autobiography centers on the Great War and the men she lost through them: her lover, her brother, her friends as well as her struggle to live with these losses. Its matter of factness is what gives it its power.

Tsing-Boum — Nicolas Freeling
The French wife of a Dutch military man is murdered in her flat, shot six times with a machine pistol, as a gangster serial is playing on the tv, drowning the noise. A professional killing, but why this woman?

Cop Killer — Sjowall & Wahloo
Gloomy seventies Scandinavian police procedural, the ur-well of all those Hennings and Bridges and other fashionable Nordic thrillers.

Criminal Conversation — Nicolas Freeling
A highly placed banker accusses an equally highly placed doctor of murder and inspector van der Valk has to play a psychological game to find out the truth.

We Who Are About to… — Joanna Russ
When a starship crashlands on an alien world far from home, all but one woman see it as their duty to restart civilisation there. This is the story of that one woman.