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There is No More Cake.
Aug. 13th, 2005 06:13 pmAnd good grief, I want cake.
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The effect of having gone through CBT* is that my "negative thoughts" get put into words, for ease of being custard-pied into insignificance. And so I end up with phrases stuck in my head. Phrases such as,
"When you're as short as I am, an extra inch can make an awful lot of difference".
*shakes head to dislodge thought, unsuccessfully*
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nannyo and I found nearly naked men in skirts last weekend in York, without even looking for them. No shoes worth buying, but lots of nearly naked men, wrestling. With small whips, which they were using hard enough to leave weals on each other. Blimey.
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Got steamingly drunk on Thursday at the tax barbecue** but managed to avoid a hangover by dint of drinking Hoegaarden followed by camomile tea at home. Missed Richard Hammond's explanations of why getting steamingly drunk is bad for you. ;'////~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ says Sausage, which pretty much sums things up.
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Explored the wing chun school in Piccadilly and signed up for the intro course. I'm not entirely convinced; I like what I saw, I like the traditional style & lack of hard sparring, but I doubt it'll get me fit and help me lose the extra padding I've developed since breaking my wrist (see! That's why I was thinking about extra inches! Originally.)
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Still feeling impoverished & sorry for myself. I know, technically, I'm well-off; the only debt I have is a mortgage (which is tiny, in all honesty), I have a car, and don't need to shop for bargain pasta at Kwik-Save, but I have No Savings and that hurts. Buying a new Celica would be an extravagance, but I can't afford to replace my heap of tin with anything more reliable. Seeing a 1986 Porsche for £4k last weekend didn't help, either; I could *just about* afford the finance, but have no garage. And a Porsche in Stockport would very soon become an empty parking space in Stockport. And I can't afford to move, cos I have No Money. And I couldn't even get Dad to look after such a Porsche on the grounds of "helping me to do it up now he's retired", cos he hates Porsches and thinks I need a nice,boring sensible car, and in any case would do all the work himself and tune the thing to within an inch of its life and decide it was far too dangerous for me and sell it again.
And I can't afford an iPod, or a digital camera, or a Tivo, or a holiday abroad, or to retake my bike test & keep the pass certificate this time.
Gah.
{end whine}
* That's the therapy version of CBT. As opposed to the motorbike version. Or the kinky version.
** Not, unfortunately, barbecuing tax practitioners, or even Butterworths books.
---
The effect of having gone through CBT* is that my "negative thoughts" get put into words, for ease of being custard-pied into insignificance. And so I end up with phrases stuck in my head. Phrases such as,
"When you're as short as I am, an extra inch can make an awful lot of difference".
*shakes head to dislodge thought, unsuccessfully*
---
nannyo and I found nearly naked men in skirts last weekend in York, without even looking for them. No shoes worth buying, but lots of nearly naked men, wrestling. With small whips, which they were using hard enough to leave weals on each other. Blimey.---
Got steamingly drunk on Thursday at the tax barbecue** but managed to avoid a hangover by dint of drinking Hoegaarden followed by camomile tea at home. Missed Richard Hammond's explanations of why getting steamingly drunk is bad for you. ;'////~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ says Sausage, which pretty much sums things up.
---
Explored the wing chun school in Piccadilly and signed up for the intro course. I'm not entirely convinced; I like what I saw, I like the traditional style & lack of hard sparring, but I doubt it'll get me fit and help me lose the extra padding I've developed since breaking my wrist (see! That's why I was thinking about extra inches! Originally.)
---
Still feeling impoverished & sorry for myself. I know, technically, I'm well-off; the only debt I have is a mortgage (which is tiny, in all honesty), I have a car, and don't need to shop for bargain pasta at Kwik-Save, but I have No Savings and that hurts. Buying a new Celica would be an extravagance, but I can't afford to replace my heap of tin with anything more reliable. Seeing a 1986 Porsche for £4k last weekend didn't help, either; I could *just about* afford the finance, but have no garage. And a Porsche in Stockport would very soon become an empty parking space in Stockport. And I can't afford to move, cos I have No Money. And I couldn't even get Dad to look after such a Porsche on the grounds of "helping me to do it up now he's retired", cos he hates Porsches and thinks I need a nice,
And I can't afford an iPod, or a digital camera, or a Tivo, or a holiday abroad, or to retake my bike test & keep the pass certificate this time.
Gah.
{end whine}
* That's the therapy version of CBT. As opposed to the motorbike version. Or the kinky version.
** Not, unfortunately, barbecuing tax practitioners, or even Butterworths books.
