So it's a Monday and true-to-form, it starts off with what appears to be a fairly fun challenge: A Discovery Wellness Day. For the whole office. Everyone.
Turns out eating everything your pregnant better-half craves is not really a fantastic health strategy. Look, I realised a while ago - around the time my T-shirts started feeling like condoms - that my - uh, lets say - horizons have been expanding. What I didn't realise was that the rate at which they were doing so left continental drift in the dust. Now, make no mistake - I'm not fat. Not yet. In fact, my circumference is seated comfortably on the border between "okay" and "fat".
The chart states my ideal goal is to be 102cm in girth or less. I'm 102 cm. (And I'm 178 cm tall - for those of you whom that means anything to.) So it's fine. Problem is, all those ice-cream and caramel cravings have left me denting (rather than tipping) the scales at 93 kg.
I should, apparently, be aiming for 78. So I'm overweight - albeit my height and circumference sit well together. My sugar level's 100% and my cholesterol doesn't necessitate me having to invest in a funeral plan just yet. But my FORMER smoking habits (one and a half months clean) bump my "Discovery Age" to 34 - my real age is 30. So that's not too bad. A 40-year-old and a twelve-year-old both look the same when they pop out from under the rear axle of a speeding bus, if you get my drift.
The pleasant thing is I now have a strategy to get healthier, kindly provided to me by the nurse's netbook with the assistance of my test results and a few of the fabrications I fed into the Q & A session.
I'm currently biding my time waiting to go for the voluntary AIDS test. At least I know the results to that one - I'm just interested in what the whole "pre-councilling" thing is all about. I'm fairly good at having myself tested at least once a year, but I'm even better at dodging the pre-test consultation.
Anyway - Morgan's nursery is looking really neat, even if it was me hanging paintings. By "hanging paintings", I mean sticking them to the wall with two-way tape. I tried earnestly to put them up with hooks and clips, but succeeded in breaking away small chunks of plaster and, quite possibly, brick.
Thankfully Estee loves me enough to put up with the yelling, snarling, the maniacal moodswings lamenting everything from the number of hooks in a packet to my all-round uselessness and the cussing not to euthenase me while I slumbered.
I'll try remember to grab some photos for you guys and post them here so you can see. My little boy's going to be safe and snug, watched over by Winnie-the-Pooh and all his friends from the Hundred Acre Wood.
It's really heartwarming to see that I've had a couple of visitors here. Please guys, feel free to leave comments here just to let me know where you're from - or how much you dispise / love my drivel / tripe.
On that note, here's another installment of "Consummation" for those of you who're enjoying it. Heck, it's here for those of you who don't enjoy it, too.
Ciao.
By Sean James Bosman
Tina twisted the bronze latch, unhooking the chain at the same time.
The big man slipped through the door as soon as there was enough space, his heavy black trench coat brushing against her face. She slapped the label out her way as she closed the door, resealing it.
“Anyone see you?” she asked.
“I seriously doubt it,” he said, taking in the kitchen. Chicken was roasting in the oven, gravy bubbled on the stove. There were potato peels strewn on the stainless steel workspace next to the double sink, where water still poured down into a colander. Tina walked passed him. She pulled up a potato, shook some of the water from it and placed it back in the colander.
She stared into the sink. For a moment he thought she was crying, but she turned to him as he approached her. Her eyes gleamed with excitement, and she grinned at him maniacally.
“Tonight’s the night, isn’t it?” She grasped her hands in front of her chest, her fingers pumping as she bounced up and down on her heels, like an excited Beatles fan back in the day.
Was she really this worked up? Was she delirious? Ecstatic?
“Yes,” he said.
She nearly knocked him over backward as she threw her arms around his neck, her hot mouth smashed against his. Her breasts pushed against his chest. He stumbled against the kitchen table and almost doubled over. He felt her gripping at his shirt. She’d pulled it from his pants as he grabbed her wrists and managed to push her back.
Tina looked at him and cocked her head slightly, smiling coyly.
“What’s the matter, Mr. Bowman?”
He stammered and gently released her. She crossed her arms over her stomach and pulled her baggy shirt up over her head, tossing it to the floor.
She smiled again as she moved in to him, resting her open palms on his chest.
“Too much woman for you?” Her breath tickled his earlobe, gooseflesh prickling the small hairs on the back of his neck.
“What about Ferdinand?” She took his right hand and placed it on her breast. He felt her nipple swell.
“He’ll be here in an hour,” she whispered. “Plenty of time…”
***
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