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Well, I’m thirty-nine today. You might think, if you read last year’s birthday post, that I’d be reporting a monumental hangover, or that I’d had a wild night of sex with a Jewish woman (and thus fulfilled my lapsed ambition of copulating with a female representative of each of the world’s major religions). But no. I awoke at 7.30 and went off as usual to my Karate lesson. On a Sunday morning!
As I approach the big 40, with two small kids, I’ve realised that my best chance of being healthy enough to see the kids leave home, and take Nongyow on our long-planned overland trip from London to Bangkok is to do something about my beer belly and my propensity to break into a sweat just walking to the fridge for another can of Guinness. And do it now.
So – it’s six months since I had my last cigarette; I’m doing regular exercise and enjoying it (this from the man who skived Games at school every week for four years!), and I’ve valiantly resisted the temptations of sultry Jewesses (because being dismembered by Nongyow obviously precludes any dotage at all, let alone a healthy one).
And, oddly, I do feel better*. Now, where’s my beer?
* Except for the lack of Jewish girls, that is.