The Perils of Exercise II
TMI
I've been trying things to rehydrate, and Tuesday saw very little eaten, which is no great loss given the BDI, but crash diets are not exactly wise. About the only thing I could kill for is a packet of crisps - but the calories scare me given I might as well gain something from not really eating. There also comes the point when - too much information - to this man there no bottom. You'd think. Tuesday night (or Wednesday morning) saw some unexpected sprints.
Wednesday I had some porridge - some salt ought to help things - and a decision to go and buy some rehydrating powder to try and restore some balance. Both Tuesday and Wednesday night saw the disconcerting feeling of my insides gurgling as I turned over, maybe even sloshing as I walked. Or perhaps I imagined it. The sloshing. I try not to think of myself as a length of hosepipe, but think at least I am getting an internal clearout.
Walking to Boots and Tesco was disorientating - I could do it and back in half an hour, but in the end I was out for ninety minutes or more, as I needed rest. There were crowds of people all in the way - I hit four language schools in a row. I'd even nearly convinced myself to go back hm to check I'd shut my front door. This takes me back seven years, to before my first therapy session.
My last was on Tuesday.
I took one dose of the salts mid evening, post Heinz tomato soup and toast, but I'm not sure I retained that liquid. An early night was on the cards, but I needed a couple of hours of editing, and then I could unwind, listening to "Titus Inherits". So 12.30 was the early night - which it is in my book, but the toilet called. Repeatedly.
I'd reached some kind of equilibrium at 3.30 and might even having been dozing off, rather than passing out, when Tilda came home with a friend. I allowed her twenty minutes, before I threw the visitor out (via the bathroom window), and Tilda stormed off in a huff. I think she went to find another friend, because something ran under my feet this afternoon and hid behind the speaker unit.
Meanwhile, more porridge, more soup, more bread later, foods and liquids seem to be progressing rather less speedily, and the wind tunnel I awoke with seems dormant for now.
I've been trying things to rehydrate, and Tuesday saw very little eaten, which is no great loss given the BDI, but crash diets are not exactly wise. About the only thing I could kill for is a packet of crisps - but the calories scare me given I might as well gain something from not really eating. There also comes the point when - too much information - to this man there no bottom. You'd think. Tuesday night (or Wednesday morning) saw some unexpected sprints.
Wednesday I had some porridge - some salt ought to help things - and a decision to go and buy some rehydrating powder to try and restore some balance. Both Tuesday and Wednesday night saw the disconcerting feeling of my insides gurgling as I turned over, maybe even sloshing as I walked. Or perhaps I imagined it. The sloshing. I try not to think of myself as a length of hosepipe, but think at least I am getting an internal clearout.
Walking to Boots and Tesco was disorientating - I could do it and back in half an hour, but in the end I was out for ninety minutes or more, as I needed rest. There were crowds of people all in the way - I hit four language schools in a row. I'd even nearly convinced myself to go back hm to check I'd shut my front door. This takes me back seven years, to before my first therapy session.
My last was on Tuesday.
I took one dose of the salts mid evening, post Heinz tomato soup and toast, but I'm not sure I retained that liquid. An early night was on the cards, but I needed a couple of hours of editing, and then I could unwind, listening to "Titus Inherits". So 12.30 was the early night - which it is in my book, but the toilet called. Repeatedly.
I'd reached some kind of equilibrium at 3.30 and might even having been dozing off, rather than passing out, when Tilda came home with a friend. I allowed her twenty minutes, before I threw the visitor out (via the bathroom window), and Tilda stormed off in a huff. I think she went to find another friend, because something ran under my feet this afternoon and hid behind the speaker unit.
Meanwhile, more porridge, more soup, more bread later, foods and liquids seem to be progressing rather less speedily, and the wind tunnel I awoke with seems dormant for now.