Restarting my routine of walking into town whenever possible, I make it from Highgate to the British Library for the first time without feeling at the end like I’ve been beaten up. I suppose I must be getting fitter. The only problem is, in the first days of getting back to a working-in-libraries routine I find it harder to get down to writing than I did at home, despite the BL and the London Library being full of serious writers – far more serious than me. Though the atmosphere of quiet study is preferable to the distractions at home – comings and goings in the shared hallway, next door’s screaming babies – a change in setting is initially a distraction in itself.
The trouble with getting into a routine is that the first few days are harder than whatever went before. It’s like cold turkey from the drug of sloth. As a result, I owe the diary two more entries this week.
What did I do on these missing days? I started and stopped, and then wandered about, then leafed through a book, then another book, then checked my email, then took too long answering it, then started and stopped, then read some websites and blogs, then wandered about some more, then went home and felt too tired to do anything but sleep. And now, late into Friday, I feel just about ready to hurl myself at the page.
As for the routine of exercise, I’ve made some little promises to myself. It’s now okay for me to go without the kind of activities which would be out of character, ie sit-ups, going to the gym, jogging. I’ve pretty much given up on the running anyway, as I just couldn’t bear to be seen in jogging trousers any longer. It’s just not me.
In return, I tell myself, I must always take the stairs, wherever there are stairs alongside lifts. And I must walk more and take public transport less, which means allowing for extra time. But that’s okay, too. I save money and minimize the chances of being at the mercy of the more tiresome passengers, and indeed at the mercy of the more tiresome failings of the transportation itself.
Walking is exercise with a point. All those miles people clock up in the gym on those treadmills – and after all that, they’re still in the same place. Not only that, but they PAY an average of £45 per month for the privilege of running while staying in the same place. This amazes me. They could be enjoying a scenic route, taking unexpected corners, pondering architecture, brainstorming ideas (going for a long walk is a commonly prescribed cure for writer’s block).
That said, I appreciate it’s worth going to the gym to look upon the comelier. I once had my photo taken with four outrageously well-developed young men, for some Soho fashion event. Me in a suit in the middle, flanked by four muscular boys in their requisite muscle-bearing outfits. Two on one knee, two standing, all with Charles Atlas grins. I can’t remember what expression I was pulling. But Hell’s elbows on toast, how I wish I had a copy of that photo.
This ancient event also featured a fine example of the opposite aesthetic: a skinny, ultra-pretty young man called Martin T, the kind Mr Wilde and his friends would have embarrassed themselves over. I bumped into Martin a year or so later, and he told me he was starting his own band called Selfish C—. I thought he was joking. Not only did this problematically-christened group go on to release real records and play real concerts, I note they’re now supporting the reformed Jesus And Mary Chain at this year’s Meltdown festival. The JAMC initially baited controversy with their name, too. But at least you can print it.
I was terribly pleased to find that a reader of this blog files it on their computer under ‘Safe For Work’. Like the jogging bottoms, swearing isn’t really me.
