It is the Day Before The Interview.
Whilst under the warm and tranquil influence of a glass of Merlot last night I confessed to Mark about the fitness requirement for the interview, and subsequent visit to the gym.
He laughed.
At first he laughed in the smirking sort of way of somebody who is very politely trying not to, but after a moment he gave up, and laughed a lot.
When he had wiped his eyes and rubbed his bruises he said gravely that he was sure that he would still love me even if I was thin. Then he thought about that for a minute, and added hastily, just in case, that probably his favourite way for me to be was just exactly the way I am. He explained that round was a perfectly acceptable shape from his point of view, no matter what the Prison Service thought.
He was convincing enough for me to forgive him. He laughed again, quietly to himself, at intervals during the rest of the evening whenever he remembered, and every now and again made sympathetic noises about my having got myself into a tizz about something so trivial and ridiculous.
When he had gone to work this morning I had got to get myself ready. I worried about it all on and off all day, flapping quietly about clothes and three acceptable forms of identification, and not getting lost on the way there.
After her lunchtime shift the lodger came round to visit and to be interested in my preparations. I was very glad to see her, and to be distracted from my worries for a while.
She was very encouraging. She said, helpfully, that having lived with us for several months she was absolutely certain that I would make a good prison officer. It was, she said, the perfect job for somebody with my attitude to life, and that she thought that I would make lots of new friends, especially amongst the prisoners.
I thought, after some consideration, that I would take this as a compliment, and hoped that she was right. Whilst very curious about the whole thing I am not actually expecting to be offered employment, presumably no matter how desperate the Prison Service is, they do not yet need argumentative taxi drivers helping them to lock up reprobates.
Despite these misgivings I have determined to give it my best shot anyway, and so this evening before I went to work I packed up my ill-fitting underwear and Lucy’s jogging trousers and returned to the gym.
This was an improved experience tonight.
I have now worked out how some of the machines work sufficiently not to look like a complete idiot when they start up unexpectedly. Number One Daughter telephoned before I set off, and explained that I should warm up gently first before trying to run for three minutes. She suggested walking for a little while, and then running afterwards, so I did this.
With the magical walking and running combination I discovered that I could carry on for ages. I burned up a stunning 82 calories just on the running machine and then a whole hundred on the rowing machine. By the time I had finished on the cycling machine I was quite sure that my flab problems must be over and done with for ever.
Despite this I could not discern any visible difference when I checked the mirror afterwards. The problem of having missed the middle day is that the promised muscle definition has not actually appeared now, which is disappointing but probably my own fault, if only I had more self control I would be in decent physical shape by now.
I went to sit in my taxi for a little rest, and to my happiness found the end of last night’s bag of Rolos, which improved my evening very much.
I am going to have an early night.
Tomorrow will be here soon enough.
I did not take the picture today. It rained today.
