So here we are on Monday afternoon once more, it's amazing how it seems to come round on an almost weekly basis. And here I am once again, contemplating going to the gym and procrastinating over it. I like to tell myself that the reason I procrastinate before going to the gym is so that it's a little less busy by the time I actually get round to working out. Of course, the truth is probably just that I don't particularly like going to the gym. But anything that lessens the chance of my comically obese doctor commenting on my weight is a good thing. I'm not sure why but I seem to have a habit of acquiring comically obese doctors, and these doctors invariably tell me that I should lose some weight, and I have to try and not laugh in their faces and tell them about Mr. Pot and Mr. Kettle.
Thinking about my first comically obese doctor, reminds me of my Scary Doctor Story. It happened way back in the mid-nineties, when I was still a fresh faced sixteen year old school boy. The summer after I turned 16 was the first, and indeed last, time that I went to Zimbabwe to stay with my father. (It's odd to think that I haven't seen him for over ten years, at least I don't think I've seen him. Close is probably not one of the words that you would use to describe our relationship, come to think about it relationship probably isn't one of the words either.) Venturing out from the relative safety and security of England to the wilds of Africa meant that I had to get a whole raft of vaccinations. Most of these I received with only a minor amount of discomfort, but then there was typhoid. At the time, it may still be true today, typhoid came as a course of three injections, two a month or so apart and then one six months later that pushed your immunisation up from one year to ten, or maybe forever. The first typhoid injection was unmemorable, the second was pretty much unforgettable. It started with the phrase, "You may have flu-like symptoms for the next 24 hours" and the doctor sticking a needle in my arm. Pretty much instantly I started feeling light headed, but I thought it would probably pass. Thirty seconds later as I was leaving the doctor's office and heading through the waiting room to the front door my vision started to cloud. I successfully managed to navigate my way out of the building and started walking towards the high street, the doctors office was on a pedestrianised alleyway about 100 yards away from high street. With each step I felt more and more disoriented. After about 50 yards I could barely make out the shapes of the buildings, and my head was diving and swimming. Right, I thought, there's a bench about 20 yards in front of me, I'll just go and sit down until I feel better. Sadly my body had other ideas; 10 yards further up I collapsed against the wall of the Post Office and lay in the gutter unable to see, barely able to breathe, wondering what the fuck was going on. I can't really say how long I lay in the gutter, it might have been anything from five minutes to half an hour, it seemed like an age. Eventually, bit by bit, my eyesight returned and I managed to get up and sit down on the bench. Flu-like symptoms, I thought, I don't ever want to get the flu. What I didn't do was to go back and tell the doctor what had happened to me (he might want to do it again), or go back for that third typhoid shot. I mean how bad can typhoid be?
I think I had a rather good weekend. It involved, in chronological order, good music (from those nice people who make up Gruver-Deeluxe and The Bogtrodders), a meandering wander on a sunny day, a lesbian bar (although there was only one lesbian, the owner, while we were there), the end of a Valentine's day show (entitled Cupid is Stupid), and my first ever visit to Dick's Den (the visit was very brief, but left me with a very favourable impression of the place). And, of course, the whole weekend involved a liberal sprinkling of intoxication.
Ooh, I've now got two Valentine's day cards, well actually one Valentine's day card and one Valentine's eve card, 'tis all very exciting. I almost feel guilty for not giving anyone anything, almost, but not quite.
Okay, I think I've procrastinated long enough. Lets see if I can haul my lazy arse down to the gym and do some of that exercise nonsense. Strange, when I started writing this post I didn't realise it was going to have any mention of doctors or fathers. Okay, so I'm still procrastinating. I promise I'll stop soon.