Call it mid-life crises, call it what you will

Love makes you fat. Corporate Blawg loves his wife, but not his chub, so Corporate Blawg is trying to lose a little of his extra girth before it appears like he's about to give birth. 

This new momentim was prompted by Corporate Blawg registering with his local GP surgery last week, not because anything is wrong, but in case he has an uncontrollable burst of shits or giggles.  Part of the process/problem with registering with your GP is that your blood pressure, weight and height must all be measured.  Corporate Blawg was told by the pretty asian nurse that he was 99kg, and the ideal for his height was 80kg, hence he was, ahem, overweight.

Corporate Blawg was thrown by this (but not very far because he is too heavy).  The realisation of being 1kg away from a tenth of a ton, or a 30th of an average sized elephant, was enough to make him start counting the calories.  Corporate Blawg doesn't look overweight because he is 188cm tall and has well-made shirts.  However, for piece of mind, and to avoid an overbearing overhang, Corporate Blawg is now all over healthy food and exercise.

Accordingly, most of Saturday was spent in York Hall swimming pool.  One of the deepest, bluest, most Art Deco swimming pools in East London.  There he swam back and forth like a horizontal yo-yo until he was almost sick.  Conscious of the faux pas of throwing up in a swimming pool, Corporate Blawg exited and went to buy dinner at a fatty supermarket.

In the cornicopia to capaciousness, Corporate Blawg began reading the fat content of his favourite foods.  Falaffel was 28% fat! But Lamb Kofte was only 16%!  The apparently healthy alternative to a kebab was a lie!  For dinner that evening, as his wife was away and he had 2 action films to get through and a playstation game, Corporate Blawg purchased a healthy-eating ready-made Chicken Tikka Masala meal (and a healthy-eating ready-made Shepherds Pie in case he got peckish later on).

Sunday followed Saturday, as is usual, and Corporate Blawg went to extraordinary lengths to do press ups whilst playing poker on the playstation.  This was followed by a sprint to Dixons, and the realisation that he would have to sprint back as he did not want to stop in Whitechapel with a bag full of expensive electrical goods.

Since meat tends to be more fatty than vegetables, on Sunday evening Corporate Blawg treated his wife to his famous Chilli Con Quorny.  Corporate Blawg's wife was most impressed and has been gassing off about how good it was for the last two days.  Corporate Blawg long ago got wind of how good his Chilli Con Quorny was.

Having two "Completions" in the next two weeks has meant that Corporate Blawg has had to work late, but this evening, Corporate Blawg did the unthinkable.  He ran home from work, kind off.  He ran for 200 yards then walked 50 yards, wheezing like a broken kettle.  Then he would run 180 yards, and walk for 60, panting like a dog with asthma.  Then he would run 160 yards, and walk for 80m, coughing and spluttering like an underwater volcanic vent with benthic fauna clambering at his neck.

Now Corporate Blawg still weighs 99kg, but his lunchtime peri peri chicken and chips that were a second on the lips, won't be adding to his hips.  So this is the future, and if you see a 188cm, 99kg corporate guru miserably sipping gin and slim-line tonic in a City pub over the next five months, take a chance and ask him "are you Corporate Blawg?".

Comments

[Rupert White]

Very, very amusing. Keep it up. And the running. Tubster.

[Alexa]

Most chuckleworthy. I have experienced the same phenomenon. In being asked to wear a shiny engagement ring, my body responded by stockpiling some resources. Why don't you get a Wii? Vigourously bashing some Raving Rabbits will do you no end of good.

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