Vol. 318

I have decided to join a gym. Scary thing is, I actually want to join. There is no scary gym-man the size of an average wardrobe behind me forcing me to do this. I have picked one 30min drive away because it seems really nice, is open until late and doesn't allow children in after 7pm. Now to figure out how to ask whether or not they think I'll be the fattest person there. Le sigh

I don't like broccoli...

...which stands greatly in the way of my pursuit for Better Life (vol. 317). And it's not just broccoli, it's majority of vegetables I don't like. I remember being insanely jealous of a vegetarian friend of mine in college, who managed an entire week's food shop for roughly around 10 or 15 euro. That left a hell of a lot of money to spend on drink and cigarettes. What was I thinking buying all that minced beef and ham for my sandwiches!? Well, I was thinking that I don't like vegetable so I'll just buy some processed crap instead, spend a lot more money on than my veggie loving friend and spend last four days of each month eating nothing but pasta with a drop of ketchup mixed in.

I would love to eat healthy. I know I probably should start now rather than five years down the line. But I don't like healthy food. If it really is so good for us, how come it doesn't taste better. Surely it is some kind of an evolutionary fuck up that the things that are good for our bodies, things that supposedly fight of diseases and generally make us live longer, aren't the things we crave in the wee hours after a hefty drinking sessions when our poor abused bodies are most in need of a health boost. Why don't the late night revellers flock to a steamed vegetable van instead of the one that sells deep fried meat from an undetermined animal source?

I'm sure broccoli would taste alright if you deep fried it, covered it in ketchup and stuffed it inside a burger bun. Our old head chef used to make me taste vegetables as a part of his little twisted ways to figure out whether or not your taste buds actually changed every 5 years or so. Problem was, he drowned the offending articles (in this case broccoli and it's nerdy little albino cousin, the cauliflower) in so much melted butter, the only thing I could taste was an impending arterial blockage.

With all this "food science" around, surely the boffins and Green Isle could manage to make the vegetable taste better. If they can make a deep fried potato shaving taste like a perennial 1970's dinner party starter or better yet, bacon, there must be a way to make lettuce taste like chips.

My sister-in-law has a talent for that, should she ever wish to give up her career as corporate banker, she could quite easily make a living showing notorious veggie-dodgers such as yours truly how to cook them in a way that makes them taste of things other than fertiliser. One of her famous successes must be The Aubergine. I never liked the look of them, all strange, shiny and purple like an alien egg. She slices them up, puts some red pepper slices and Parmesan on top and bakes them in the oven until crispy. My mouth is watering, yet we're talking about two types of vegetable and some cheese. Maybe it is the cheese. Everything is made better by the presence of cheese. Maybe the Americans have got it right after all. Would you like some cheese with that?

Ahem...

One measly post in the entire month of July? Shame on me. Just goes to show how easily my resolve to write something at least once a week crumbled like the last hob nob you fished out of the bottom of the packet of biscuits.

I have returned from spending time with my family, weighing a good few pounds more and having done some possibly irreversible damage to my already long-suffering liver. The wedding was a great do altogether, lasting all in all for about three days. It was great to see family I haven't seen in years but I must admit, 4 days staying in close proximity of each other did in fact confirm that I did make the right decision in moving out of the country. Some family members more so than others, but we'll leave the details open to speculation.

Booze and food. Staple summer holiday diet. I should've known where it all was heading when, on my arrival to my brother's house I was presented with a champagne breakfast. It was 8.30am on a Friday morning. In my defence, it was ridiculously hot. +32 being the average temperature in the shade for most of the time I was there. And everybody knows nothing quenches your thirst like a nice, ice cold beer on a hot summer's day. Or morning.

So in my post-holiday food and booze hangover I have resolved to start a Better Life. Vol. 317 by my calculations. In all seriousness, I am aware that largely this is due to me approaching 30, and starting to be painfully aware of the fact that I am not getting any younger (physically, that is, mentally I'm still somewhere between 13 and 18 depending on the day). More exercise, less crap food and most definitely less booze. That last bit might have to wait until the end of the summer. See how determined I am?

We'll see how it goes, but I'm starting to feel sorry for Mr S already. When I deny myself things it's usually him, who gets the brunt of my frustrations...