Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Not content with stinting on the Stellas, I'm now seriously considering cutting the coffee, or at least opting for the de-caff variety. I appreciate the kick-start my tall Americano gives me in the morning, but I can never stop at just one. By the time work chucks out, I'm Starbucked with so much caffeine, that I'm kicking and screaming like a bronco rider on crystal meth.
Oh dear. These days, I'm turning into a proper Goody Two-Shoes, aren't I? Please feel free to give me a slap. I've never messed with fags (at least, not of the tobacco kind), and have even been known to cross the street to avoid being downwind of a smoker. At the moment, I'm only drinking at weekends (although admittedly it's a Planet Gay sort of weekend, one that starts on Thursday night); and, as for other stimulants, I can't recall having a runny nose for quite a while now. And when it comes to grand, earth-moving passion, often it feels that sort of thing gave up on me somewhere between Money by Martin Amis and Kate Bush's last CD. And I'm in bed before Graham Norton most nights of the week.
Next thing you know, I'll be passing up on the burgers at Ed's Easy Diner, cycling to work (if I'd ever learnt to ride a bike, that is), and electing to subsist on a diet of bamboo sprouts and rainwater, before shacking up with a yak on top of a Tibetan mountain, from which I shall occasionally descend to deliver my words of clean-mind-clean-body claptrap.
I feel as though I'm unconsciously evolving into some holier-than-thou proselytiser for the Healthy Lifestyle, and it just feels all wrong and unnatural somehow. A man needs at least one vice of which he knows his mother would disapprove, and a queen preferably ten, or else where's the fun to be had in life? As for me, well, I don't even pick my nose anymore.