Shape shifting

That's me on the left in 2005. The picture below is me now, with Sue and our neighbour baby Domenica at her baptism party. The new shape is the product of a mysterious wasting disease called "dieting".

I can tell that many people who last saw me fat and then see me thin, don't recognise me. Sometimes I see on peoples' faces that puzzled look that says "I'm sure I know this person, but who are they?" But there are other people who don't notice the weight loss at all. Perhaps these are people that see my personality rather than my superficial shape. Or maybe they just register other humans by a few tiny face details which don't change much with weight loss.

The attitude of people to my physical shape is influenced by how long they have known me. To a person I have never met before I am a middle-aged man with an unremarkable build. Whereas to people that have known me for a longer time I think I am often seen as an overweight person who is now thin, perhaps too thin. Interestingly there are some people who get angry or irritated by my weight loss. These are usually overweight male contemporaries. Sometimes they get very angry, especially when they are drunk and suggest that I am dangerously thin and need to eat more takeaway food and drink more alcohol in order to be healthy and happy.

Recently I reached the fairly arbitrary "target weight" towards which I had been "dieting" and I announced to Sue that my "diet" was over. I'm beginning to miss it already.

Keeping score

Today I am fifty five years old. I got up early, put on my running kit and drove out to the Ridge. The weather was like in this picture, except I didn't take Milly today. I ran fifteen kilometers. It took me eighty six minutes, a personal best by nearly a minute. There was a cool breeze when I began, but by the time I was finished the Sun was high and the temperature was in the middle thirties. I finished with a sprint to the car, my fist in the air shouting "yes!" As I stretched my tired legs the Sun made the sweat on my arms glisten and the breeze began to cool me again.

When I get home Sue has tied balloons to our gate. Our builders are working on our new outside kitchen and all three wish me "happy birthday". I go inside and there are three presents on the table. I greet Sue, shower, change and boot up my laptop. I enter my time on a spreadsheet and note that the World record for a man of my age to run fifteen kilometers is 56% of the time I ran this morning. My age expressed as a percentage of eighty five years is 65%. On the other hand, if I assume my real adult life didn't begin until I was fifteen and I live to be eighty five, I have so far consumed only 57% of my life. But that's still a lot more than half. To be only at the half-way stage I would need to survive until I am ninety five. I can't kid myself, in this particular race I am much closer to the finish than the start.

Sue makes me scrambled eggs for my breakfast and I open her presents to me: a Fossil necklace; a "T" shirt and; a mosquito incinerator. The latter is one of those contraptions with an ultra violet light that makes a satisfying sizzling sound when a mosquito hits it. Sue knows I have always wanted one of these. It's not enough for mosquitoes to die, I believe they should suffer too.

Today I feel happy and lucky. I may be fifty five, but I've run a personal best and nothing hurts and the woman I love has bought me presents. How about you Mr Mosquito, do you feel lucky?

Message in a virtual bottle?

My first post to my first blog. Sat at my laptop in my bedroom, the shutters closed to keep out the Sun. Fifty five and still not sure what I want to be when I grow up. I feel like one of an infinite number of monkeys, tap, tap, tapping away. Actually in my case the tapping is very intermittent as I am unsure of my purpose. The photo by the way was taken in Napoli.

Sue is at the other end of the house surfing the internet. Milly is no doubt curled up on the tiles in a quiet corner of a quiet room trying not to move. This must be very difficult when all your instincts are telling you to bark at every strange noise and every plaintive yap from the half-rat half-dog that lives up the road.

July and August are our dog days too. Neither of us are working at the moment and there is not much to do on our acre of land at the height of the Summer when the olive trees go into stasis and most of the weeds shrivel up and die. It is a time for trips to the beach and partying with friends. But, I haven't yet done either of these things and I can't shake off a vague feeling of guilt for having nothing pressing to do.

I'm not complaining - I've had enough "interesting times" to know that bored is OK. I guess that's at least one reason why I'm writing this blog ...