Trees and toast.
Hello.
So far so free of heartburn since Monday night, other than the slightest of twinges on Friday afternoon when I’d had a “meal deal” from Boots of a pack of sandwiches, a packet of cheese and onion crisps and a bottle of diet coke. For most of the time I’m eating more healthily than before but one day a week I allow myself a “treat” lunch and on Sundays I don’t do the cycling in the mornings (unless Saturday is my day off when I leave it then instead but do cycle on Sunday.) The main difference to my diet has been to cut out bread, and by doing so all the lovely, fat-laden, calorific goodies that can go on it. Well, when I say bread what I’m really referring to is toast. I love toast more than anyone could possibly imagine. For a very simple food-stuff if it is incredibly versatile and can take almost anything you can throw at it. But it has to be banished for the sake of my waist line. This week several people have told me, unbidden and unaware of my effort to make a difference, that I looked a tad reduced around the waistline. I knew that my jeans were getting looser, but it’s nice when people can see it. It gives me more impetus to continue, particularly when I’m sitting on my exercise bike, bored of brain and sore of butt.
Is it clichéd to listen to classical music on a Sunday morning? Somehow it nearly always seems to suit my mellow mood, so I click on to iTunes, select the classical files and have a nice relaxing listen. And then suddenly I’ll have had enough and want something entirely different; last week I went on to the Sex Pistols (how dated and un-shocking they sound now) and this week it was been stuff I used to dance to in the gay clubs of the late eighties and the nineties. Back when I was suffering badly from panic attacks and the daily walk to and from work could be trial for me I found that listening to classical music was quite therapeutic and could calm me down in a way that pop or spoken word stuff could not. I’ll even listen to the religious broadcasts on Radio 4 on a Sunday morning because I enjoy choral singing (not so good if it’s a congregation with variable vocal abilities or it comes from a church with a “contemporary” twist to their music.)
The other Sunday cliché we indulged in was to go for a walk in Christchurch Park, the large public park just off the town centre. It’s just had loads of lottery money spent on it and we hadn’t seen some of the improvements that have been made and as the rain had stopped and it was relatively warm (well, I thought so - Drew was less convinced) we decided it was a good time to get some fresh air. It made for a pleasant stroll, passing other people who were out with their dogs or simply doing the same as we were. The park is looking good even though some work is on-going, so the money has been well-spent.
This tree, according to a new information display by the park entrance, is reckoned to be 800 years old. It’s certainly one of the grandest in the park. I find it fascinating that something can have been alive that long and still be healthy. It would have started growing in the 13th Century while what is now the park was just woodland and the only building close by would have been St. Margaret’s church in whatever form that took at the time. That continuous connection to the past is mind-boggling…
Not such an old tree, but one that has been there long enough to really grip onto the incline with its rather impressive root system. The photo isn’t overly sharp because I just couldn’t get the camera to do what I wanted to; flash was too harsh and the natural light, dull anyway from the cloud cover, was affected by the leaf canopy.
We did a wide circuit of the park, not the whole thing but close enough, and then wended our way back to the car. The parking spaces along the road that fringes the park were beginning to fill up presumably as people realised that the rain was going to hold off, so we had clearly chosen our time to go very well. We came back to the house and have taken things easy ever since - catching up with some TV from last night and eating that well-known Sunday staple meal. chicken Jalfrezi. I’ve had a shower and a shave so I don’t have to do so before work in the morning and we’re about to have a little snackette and then go to bed.
I shall finish with the observation that despite what one reads or hears about there are some lovely people in the world. Our neighbours, S&G invited us round for the evening when they got home from G’s brother who is recovering from a car accident in which his car was rear-ended by a bus. (He’s fine.) We were there until just before midnight, chatting and watching Lara Croft on television. While we chatted they asked me what my plans for Christmas are, knowing that Drew will be away for the duration and explained that I was more than welcome to pop round on Boxing day when they would be entertaining members of their families. I think they would have invited me for Christmas Day if I’d not been going to Mum and Dad’s. I know I’ve mentioned how nice they are before, but it bears repeating I think. They are truly nice, genuine people.
Lastly I shall relate the fact that I heard myself speak the words “… on the weekend…” when it ought to be “…at the weekend…” My God, I’ll be saying “On Christmas” soon. I must be watching too much American television or something.
Okay, time to call it a day.
So far so free of heartburn since Monday night, other than the slightest of twinges on Friday afternoon when I’d had a “meal deal” from Boots of a pack of sandwiches, a packet of cheese and onion crisps and a bottle of diet coke. For most of the time I’m eating more healthily than before but one day a week I allow myself a “treat” lunch and on Sundays I don’t do the cycling in the mornings (unless Saturday is my day off when I leave it then instead but do cycle on Sunday.) The main difference to my diet has been to cut out bread, and by doing so all the lovely, fat-laden, calorific goodies that can go on it. Well, when I say bread what I’m really referring to is toast. I love toast more than anyone could possibly imagine. For a very simple food-stuff if it is incredibly versatile and can take almost anything you can throw at it. But it has to be banished for the sake of my waist line. This week several people have told me, unbidden and unaware of my effort to make a difference, that I looked a tad reduced around the waistline. I knew that my jeans were getting looser, but it’s nice when people can see it. It gives me more impetus to continue, particularly when I’m sitting on my exercise bike, bored of brain and sore of butt.
Is it clichéd to listen to classical music on a Sunday morning? Somehow it nearly always seems to suit my mellow mood, so I click on to iTunes, select the classical files and have a nice relaxing listen. And then suddenly I’ll have had enough and want something entirely different; last week I went on to the Sex Pistols (how dated and un-shocking they sound now) and this week it was been stuff I used to dance to in the gay clubs of the late eighties and the nineties. Back when I was suffering badly from panic attacks and the daily walk to and from work could be trial for me I found that listening to classical music was quite therapeutic and could calm me down in a way that pop or spoken word stuff could not. I’ll even listen to the religious broadcasts on Radio 4 on a Sunday morning because I enjoy choral singing (not so good if it’s a congregation with variable vocal abilities or it comes from a church with a “contemporary” twist to their music.)
The other Sunday cliché we indulged in was to go for a walk in Christchurch Park, the large public park just off the town centre. It’s just had loads of lottery money spent on it and we hadn’t seen some of the improvements that have been made and as the rain had stopped and it was relatively warm (well, I thought so - Drew was less convinced) we decided it was a good time to get some fresh air. It made for a pleasant stroll, passing other people who were out with their dogs or simply doing the same as we were. The park is looking good even though some work is on-going, so the money has been well-spent.
This tree, according to a new information display by the park entrance, is reckoned to be 800 years old. It’s certainly one of the grandest in the park. I find it fascinating that something can have been alive that long and still be healthy. It would have started growing in the 13th Century while what is now the park was just woodland and the only building close by would have been St. Margaret’s church in whatever form that took at the time. That continuous connection to the past is mind-boggling…
Not such an old tree, but one that has been there long enough to really grip onto the incline with its rather impressive root system. The photo isn’t overly sharp because I just couldn’t get the camera to do what I wanted to; flash was too harsh and the natural light, dull anyway from the cloud cover, was affected by the leaf canopy.
We did a wide circuit of the park, not the whole thing but close enough, and then wended our way back to the car. The parking spaces along the road that fringes the park were beginning to fill up presumably as people realised that the rain was going to hold off, so we had clearly chosen our time to go very well. We came back to the house and have taken things easy ever since - catching up with some TV from last night and eating that well-known Sunday staple meal. chicken Jalfrezi. I’ve had a shower and a shave so I don’t have to do so before work in the morning and we’re about to have a little snackette and then go to bed.
I shall finish with the observation that despite what one reads or hears about there are some lovely people in the world. Our neighbours, S&G invited us round for the evening when they got home from G’s brother who is recovering from a car accident in which his car was rear-ended by a bus. (He’s fine.) We were there until just before midnight, chatting and watching Lara Croft on television. While we chatted they asked me what my plans for Christmas are, knowing that Drew will be away for the duration and explained that I was more than welcome to pop round on Boxing day when they would be entertaining members of their families. I think they would have invited me for Christmas Day if I’d not been going to Mum and Dad’s. I know I’ve mentioned how nice they are before, but it bears repeating I think. They are truly nice, genuine people.
Lastly I shall relate the fact that I heard myself speak the words “… on the weekend…” when it ought to be “…at the weekend…” My God, I’ll be saying “On Christmas” soon. I must be watching too much American television or something.
Okay, time to call it a day.