I’ve been doing that thing where you try to make yourself do ‘improving things’ and realise, halfway through most of them, that you are a creature impervious to improvement and reluctant to participate in privation.

 

In other words, that the miraculous qualities heavily implied by the packaging of Milled Flaxseed are manifest only in multiple trips to the loo, and that Linseeds look, smell, and taste like, a swarm of tiny beetles, waiting until they are safely in your mouth before coming to life.

I have to eat them with my eyes closed, and if anything was ever more tragic than standing over the sink running late for work forcing down a mouthful of beetle-y seeds, I have not yet done it.

 

Purchasing control tights: also a bad move. I always hold out hope that control tights will control everything.

My timetable, appetite, the tides.

They barely, it turns out, control my thighs, but they do make me feel a bit sick every time I eat, and raise my body temperature on the tube to heights near fainting, so I suppose they are arguably doing something, and after all, they aren’t called ‘pleasant tights’.

I sometimes think I would rather look fat, and then I worry about considering whether or not I look fat at all, and wonder what neuroses look like manifest.

Tiny squid perhaps. I had delicious squid on Sunday, and perhaps am more neurotic for it.

Imagine a pair of tights full of dead squid trying to get the tube to Hammersmith, and you have an accurate assessment of my Monday to Friday regime.

 

One nice thing I am doing, actually, is trying to learn more poems off by heart. Pick which ones carefully, though, would be my retrospective advice.

Nothing like mouthing something passionate in rush hour only to realise that the elderly man opposite has been watching your mouth with the rapt attention thirsty men give to water-bearers, and that you have just got to a line about disrobing. Hawt.

 

Curious herbal concoctions, too, something I thought I would grow out of in my slittering stage, creating potions in the garden and insisting I apply them liberally over my parents.

No no. Last night I forced my housemate to drink some truly disgusting clove tea, which I was so embarrassed about I had to pretend I really liked, and I keep eyeing up nettles on the roadside with intent.

Dog pee and stinging nettle tea, anyone?

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