The pat theory is that you exercise more - we've dealt with that as a non-source of calorie loss - and eat less. The "eating less" bit has to mean "drastically less", as in 500+ calories a day, not "a little less" as in 100 calories a day, because you simply can't control your intake to within 100 calories a day. It's a slice of Dove Farm bread or half a Yoga Bunny Bowl from Pret. Or a good long look at a bar of chocolate.
According to the US Army, those of us with a sedentary lifestyle need between 12-14 calories per pound of body weight as an equilibrium diet. That would be "sedentary" is by the standards of the US Army, not a London office worker. You and I are "sedentary". When I started The Diet, I weighed 95 kgs, giving an equilibrium intake of 2,500 calories a day. I cut this to around 1,500 calories a day and aside from yearnings for food mid-morning, it's not hurting at all.
Now here's the catch: when I hit my target weight, I don't "go back to eating like I used to", which is what the pat articles in the press say. I go back to the equilibrium diet for that weight. At 87 kgs, that's 2,300 calories. 800 calories is not a) the croissant with the morning coffee + b) a Snickers in the afternoon +c) some chocolate in the evening + d) fries at lunchtime on top of e) slightly larger meals with more veggies in them for additional roughage. If that's what I do, I'll be back up at 95 kgs again.
You understand I'm thinking out loud here. The extra calories cannot be extra carbs - unless they are really slow-digesting. Extra carbs means early-evening carb crash. That does not help the quality of my life. Contrary to anything you may have heard, veggies have calories, but Good Calories - not many per 100 grams and accompanied by a lot of fibre. I could have more veggies, but where does that happen in central London? So-called 'vegetarian' restaurants are actually very high on carbs: rice, noodles, potato. And the prices do not reflect the cost of the raw materials, but the aspirations of the customers.
The extra calories allow treat meals, such as I had at Santore on Exmouth Market before Rocio Molinas' amazing performance at Sadlers Wells. Treat meals are good. It allows sushi and a little something with afternoon tea - just not muffins. How muffins got to be on the Good List I have no idea: bland taste and packed with fats and carbs. But I could home-bake some biscuits: equally fatty and full of carbs, but much more flavour. What I eat in the evening now is about right: you need to be Spanish to have large evening meals and not turn into a Lard Tub. I eat enough at breakfast now. Maybe I could graduate from the sandwiches to the stews at Fernandez and Wells.
This is the catch. We really don't need to eat that much and it's really easy to eat more than enough. What I need to work out is a baseline diet on top of which I can put treat meals and the odd bit of comfort eating without messing up the weekly average. Oh. Right. That would be what I'm eating now. And that's the catch. There is no "return to normal", only a bunch of new habits and a certain amount of vigilance.
Friday, 18 February 2011
Wednesday, 16 February 2011
Joni Mitchell's Blue
There are a handful of moments in my life when I experienced something like a complete conversion to a cause. One of them was an edition of the John Peel Sunday show in the winter of 1970/71, when Joni Mitchell played an hour-long solo set. (Warning: I can't find this via Google, but since I heard the repeat when I was a summer intern with the CEGB at the Pembroke Power Station, and that was summer 1971, I think I'm right.) My first reaction was "oh, she wrote Clouds" and so I was expecting some twee folkie stuff. I'm sure she previewed some songs from Blue and her then hit Ladies of the Canyon. I was totally converted and genuflecting in front of the radio half-way through. I had no idea anyone could write songs and sing like that.
Joni Mitchell is one of a handful of artists in any genre who never stopped developing. Miles Davis. John Coltrane. Francisco Goya. Henry James. David Bowie. She never hit a groove and stuck with it, but kept on changing. Grow up following the career of artists like that and the regular guys, who hit a groove and stay with it, seem like, well, tradesmen. Entertainers. It gives you crazy expectations.
She released Blue in the summer of 1971. I heard it again after a long while recently and it sounded better. It is, in fact, perfect. Perfect in the way that Kind of Blue or A Love Supreme or In A Silent Way are perfect. You know the songs by heart, but there's always another little detail in the accompaniment, another piece of phrasing in her singing, that you didn't notice before - just as happens with Kind of Blue. Maybe Ashley Kahn should write a book about it.
Blue swings between ectsatic love-song (Carey, My Old Man) with the immortal lines "But when he's gone / Me and them Lonesome Blues collide / The bed's too big, the frying pan's too wide", to the darkness of Laura Nyro in the song Blue: "Acid, booze, and ass / Needles, guns, and grass / Lots of laughs lots of laughs / Everybody's saying that hell's the hippest way to go / Well I don't think so / But I'm gonna take a look around it though". The rockingest song she ever wrote, covered by Nazareth (!), is there in This Flight Tonight and A Case of You has been covered by more than a dozen people.
It's not for everyone. Joni Mitchell has been described as making music for sensitive girls of both sexes, but they aren't paying attention to the lyrics. Joni Mitchell doesn't expect love to last, and she doesn't regret that it doesn't. She expects it to be wonderful when it's there but for it to pass away pretty soon. That's not a girl-y sensibility. A woman's, maybe, an artist's defintely.
Joni Mitchell is one of a handful of artists in any genre who never stopped developing. Miles Davis. John Coltrane. Francisco Goya. Henry James. David Bowie. She never hit a groove and stuck with it, but kept on changing. Grow up following the career of artists like that and the regular guys, who hit a groove and stay with it, seem like, well, tradesmen. Entertainers. It gives you crazy expectations.
She released Blue in the summer of 1971. I heard it again after a long while recently and it sounded better. It is, in fact, perfect. Perfect in the way that Kind of Blue or A Love Supreme or In A Silent Way are perfect. You know the songs by heart, but there's always another little detail in the accompaniment, another piece of phrasing in her singing, that you didn't notice before - just as happens with Kind of Blue. Maybe Ashley Kahn should write a book about it.
Blue swings between ectsatic love-song (Carey, My Old Man) with the immortal lines "But when he's gone / Me and them Lonesome Blues collide / The bed's too big, the frying pan's too wide", to the darkness of Laura Nyro in the song Blue: "Acid, booze, and ass / Needles, guns, and grass / Lots of laughs lots of laughs / Everybody's saying that hell's the hippest way to go / Well I don't think so / But I'm gonna take a look around it though". The rockingest song she ever wrote, covered by Nazareth (!), is there in This Flight Tonight and A Case of You has been covered by more than a dozen people.
It's not for everyone. Joni Mitchell has been described as making music for sensitive girls of both sexes, but they aren't paying attention to the lyrics. Joni Mitchell doesn't expect love to last, and she doesn't regret that it doesn't. She expects it to be wonderful when it's there but for it to pass away pretty soon. That's not a girl-y sensibility. A woman's, maybe, an artist's defintely.
Monday, 14 February 2011
The Diet: Week 7
Last week I passed into the Target Zone: on Friday morning I weighed 87.5 kilos with a body fat of 22.4%. The target is a stable weight of 87 kilos, which means I have to get down to 86.5 or so before resuming the non-diet. Except there's a catch with that I'll explain in a later post.
Last week was an Emotions Week. I've had a tight right shoulder and my middle back is rock solid. If I sit still for ten minutes, I start to ache and without thinking to rub my right shoulder-blades. Also, there's a really complicated thing about the getting near to your objectives: it's not actually a cause for celebration. Suddenly the spectre of failing becomes serious - up until you reach the Target Zone, you can say "at least I tried", but once you're in the Zone, it becomes "I failed". By the time I reach the Target Zone, the fun has drained right out of the exercise: I'm in grit-my-teeth and finish this mode.
Which is why on Friday lunchtime the Gang and I went to Soho Joes on Dean Street at lunchtime and I had the burger and chips. Which is very good and I loved every bite. Promptly at half-past-five I had a carb-sugar-crash the like of which I remember from previous fries-with-lunches and haven't had since The Diet started. Crashes like that used to send me straight home feeling awful, cancelling any plans I may have had, but this time I went to the Pilates class and worked through it. By the time I'd showered and came out, I was just fine. And had put on over two pounds in the day, because my weight was 88.6 kilos - usually I weight about the same at the end of the day as at the start.
Huh?!!??! A bowl of fries slams on two pounds? Well, yes. Because you retain more water to process the carbs and because you don't burn off any triglycerides (aka Bad Fat) in your fat cells because the chips de-compose more or less instantly into blood sugar, which turns up the insulin, which turns off the Bad Fat metabolism. I was calm about the weight increase, because I knew it would be back down as long as I didn't eat any more crap.
So the Saturday, I had more fries for lunch, and the vanilla ice cream with hot chocolate sauce - at the Med Kitchen on Upper Street, before going to see Aida Gomez' Carmen at Sadlers Wells. When I came out, the sky was blue and the air was clear and I stretched my legs by walking back to Waterloo. Sunday morning: 88.0 kilos. Also a much steadier emotional state allowed by a bit of indulgence over the weekend. Which is what I need for the next week or so. Emotions are the rocks on which many a good intention about our bodies crash.
Last week was an Emotions Week. I've had a tight right shoulder and my middle back is rock solid. If I sit still for ten minutes, I start to ache and without thinking to rub my right shoulder-blades. Also, there's a really complicated thing about the getting near to your objectives: it's not actually a cause for celebration. Suddenly the spectre of failing becomes serious - up until you reach the Target Zone, you can say "at least I tried", but once you're in the Zone, it becomes "I failed". By the time I reach the Target Zone, the fun has drained right out of the exercise: I'm in grit-my-teeth and finish this mode.
Which is why on Friday lunchtime the Gang and I went to Soho Joes on Dean Street at lunchtime and I had the burger and chips. Which is very good and I loved every bite. Promptly at half-past-five I had a carb-sugar-crash the like of which I remember from previous fries-with-lunches and haven't had since The Diet started. Crashes like that used to send me straight home feeling awful, cancelling any plans I may have had, but this time I went to the Pilates class and worked through it. By the time I'd showered and came out, I was just fine. And had put on over two pounds in the day, because my weight was 88.6 kilos - usually I weight about the same at the end of the day as at the start.
Huh?!!??! A bowl of fries slams on two pounds? Well, yes. Because you retain more water to process the carbs and because you don't burn off any triglycerides (aka Bad Fat) in your fat cells because the chips de-compose more or less instantly into blood sugar, which turns up the insulin, which turns off the Bad Fat metabolism. I was calm about the weight increase, because I knew it would be back down as long as I didn't eat any more crap.
So the Saturday, I had more fries for lunch, and the vanilla ice cream with hot chocolate sauce - at the Med Kitchen on Upper Street, before going to see Aida Gomez' Carmen at Sadlers Wells. When I came out, the sky was blue and the air was clear and I stretched my legs by walking back to Waterloo. Sunday morning: 88.0 kilos. Also a much steadier emotional state allowed by a bit of indulgence over the weekend. Which is what I need for the next week or so. Emotions are the rocks on which many a good intention about our bodies crash.
Friday, 11 February 2011
Things I Saw Where I Lived and Walked: Part 29
Autumn bushes in Virginia Water (I think); office workers crossing London Bridge; M4 Friday evening westbound; toadstool in Bushy Park. All Olympus 0M10 on film and early 1990's.
Wednesday, 9 February 2011
The Diet: Week 6
A couple of weeks ago, I was supposed to go to a conference in the centre of universe that is Birmingham International. A large chunk of The Bank was going, and a couple of cancelled trains meant that mine was packed, my reserved seat occupied, and I would need to expense another ticket to get up there. I decided I didn't need to be going.
I needed to be getting an opinion about the lump on my skull. It had been aching over the previous two days and couldn't be an infection because infections on my head run out of control really fast. At my age, random lumps carry only one fear. It was that fear I needed to address. Which I did at the Soho Walk-In Centre first thing that morning. The nurses there, who impress me more than the nurses at other walk-ins I've been, decided it was a skin condition for which a medicated shampoo would do the trick. It was an emotional day.
The previous day, after a lunchtime run, my weight had dipped below 90 kgs for the first time. That day, it went straight up to 90.6 kgs and held around the 90 - 90.5 kilo range for the rest of the week. Last Tuesday I shared this stuff at my meeting, and that helped clear the emotions. After the usual Spin / Boxing / Pilates sessions, Saturday morning I weighed 88.3 kgs, with a body fat of 20.9%.
The bureaucrats portray a weight loss programme as a "eat-less, exercise-more" calorie-accounting exercise, with steady rewards for marginal changes in net calorie consumption. As if. The human body doesn't work like that. What you're feeling affects what happens as well. Duh. Emotions = hormones rushing round the bloodstream along with all the other chemicals that affect nutrition and digestion. Get the emotions clean and simple and everything else follows.
I needed to be getting an opinion about the lump on my skull. It had been aching over the previous two days and couldn't be an infection because infections on my head run out of control really fast. At my age, random lumps carry only one fear. It was that fear I needed to address. Which I did at the Soho Walk-In Centre first thing that morning. The nurses there, who impress me more than the nurses at other walk-ins I've been, decided it was a skin condition for which a medicated shampoo would do the trick. It was an emotional day.
The previous day, after a lunchtime run, my weight had dipped below 90 kgs for the first time. That day, it went straight up to 90.6 kgs and held around the 90 - 90.5 kilo range for the rest of the week. Last Tuesday I shared this stuff at my meeting, and that helped clear the emotions. After the usual Spin / Boxing / Pilates sessions, Saturday morning I weighed 88.3 kgs, with a body fat of 20.9%.
The bureaucrats portray a weight loss programme as a "eat-less, exercise-more" calorie-accounting exercise, with steady rewards for marginal changes in net calorie consumption. As if. The human body doesn't work like that. What you're feeling affects what happens as well. Duh. Emotions = hormones rushing round the bloodstream along with all the other chemicals that affect nutrition and digestion. Get the emotions clean and simple and everything else follows.
Like that's easy. Il Maestro Robert Townsend says: "A sure sign of frustration is putting on weight. Watch for it on the people who work for you. Remove the cause and the weight will come back off." Right now, I'm not feeling frustrated in the way that has me comfort- and consolation-eating.
Monday, 7 February 2011
The Philosophical Irrelevance of... Happiness
I was flicking through a book called "The Pursuit of Unhappiness" in Blackwell's recently and a thought happened. If philosophers have been discussing a subject for two thousand and more years and still haven't reached a conclusion, then they are discussing the wrong subject. Indeed, the very subject may be a distraction and a scam to stop us looking at the really important stuff.
Happiness is one such thing. Philosophers, psychologists and even politicians have been talking about it for upwards of three thousand years and getting nowhere. Everyone thinks it is important, and no-one can describe it. In surveys, most people in most countries say they are happy. If happiness is the state of a majority of people living in England, then either life in London is very different from life in any other town, or happiness really doesn't mean much. It may have started out as a respectable idea, but ever since it took up with the utilitarians, it's been staying out late and coming home drunk, smelling of politics.
Let's be a little careful here. My Chambers tells me "happy" means: "lucky; fortunate; expressing...content; well-being; pleasure, or good; apt; felicitous; carefree; confident; mildly drunk (slang)." This is not what therapists and counsellors mean, and it is not what your manager means when she asks you if you're happy in your job.
What they mean is that you are not feeling discontent, upset and wanting to be somewhere else. Therapists and counsellors deal with people who are miserable, discontent, depressed, obsessed, angry and a hundred other negative feelings. All of them wish not to suffer the pain of those feelings, and all of them will say that either they don't want to be depressed (or whatever) all the time, or that they "want to be happy". Used in this context, "happiness" is nothing more than the absence of whatever toxic and dysfunctional feelings we want to be rid of. Your manager wants you to say you're happy because then they don't have to worry about you. You don't need a pay rise, bonus, perks, training and development, or promotion, nor are you likely to up and go leaving them with an empty position the hiring freeze won't let them fill. Your partner in a relationship that has long been more habit than passion wants you to say you're happy because then you are not going to leave or have an affair and they don't have to bother with you any more than they aren't already. Politicians want the electorate to be happy so they will be voted in again and don't have to re-build the schools, make sure the hospitals are clean and staffed, let alone mend the roads and stop companies shipping jobs overseas.
I used to think that Gilbert Ryle's definition was about right: to be happy is to be doing what you want to be doing and not wanting to be doing anything else. I've always thought that sounded slightly like the state of mind of an Englishman tending to his garden, but you have to appreciate the subtlety of that "not wanting to be doing anything else". Now I think Ryle was really talking about a particular state of mind that used to be called "being absorbed" and is more trendily called "flow". To call this loss-of-self "happiness" is concept-stretching way past breaking point.
Most philosophers have understood that if happiness is to be the desired state of human life, there's a lot at stake when you define it. Especially if you include the aspect of contentment. That's why Aristotle was canny enough to separate happiness from mere pleasure and thus be able to equate happiness with virtuous action and living. Because if happiness is the goal of human life, then it can't just be a feeling, or else it could be satisfied by taking Soma, Aldous Huxley's happy drug in Brave New World, and tolerating the most awful injustices and atrocities. Isn't it good to be happy? Not if you can happily cheat your customers. Not if you're wilfully ignorant of facts that would upset you or deluded about your chances in the world. Is it good to be miserable? As long as you make the changes in your life you need to stop the misery. Don't I want people to be happy? Not if it means that in their colossal complacency they get dumber, fatter and uglier, and make the world a less pleasant place for the rest of us. There's nothing wrong with being happy, but there's more to life than feeling content. (Remember, when the Founding Fathers talked about the Pursuit of Happiness, they meant the practice of those occupations and pastimes that you want to do, they didn't mean getting high.)
If you're still not convinced that "happiness" has turned into a scam, recall the "research" by the New Economics Foundation allegedly showing that happiness increases with salary up to about the national median wage, and doesn't improve much after that. What an astonishingly convenient piece of research that is for employers - the largest of whom is the State.
Most people would, if asked, say they were happy: it's almost rude not to. It takes a John Stuart Mill to affirm that "it is better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a pig satisfied". When I think about it, I have been neither happy nor content in my entire life. Ecstatic, transported, absorbed, lost-in-wonder, giggling-in-mischief, relieved, entranced, amazed, laughing-my-socks-off, pleased, calm, rested, joyous... a hundred positive emotions, but never "happy". Maybe people who say they are "happy" just don't have the vocabulary to name accurately what they are feeling.
And maybe philosophers talk about happiness out of habit. It is, after all, just another state of mind. It's not even clear that it is a valuable state of mind. The question that philosophers should be asking is: what value do the various states of mind have? Even self-pity has its time. You can think of your current state of mind as a some kind of reaction to your circumstances. You can let yourself be conned by New Age pseudo-psychologists into thinking that you can make your state of mind what you want it to be - so that it's your fault you're miserable. Or you can view your state of mind as a tool to help you get done what you need to do. I can't think of one thing that happiness helps me get done, but I do like that light, cheerful feeling when the air is fresh, the sky is blue, the sun is shining and I'm in the South of France with a day job to come back to at the end of the holiday.
Happiness is one such thing. Philosophers, psychologists and even politicians have been talking about it for upwards of three thousand years and getting nowhere. Everyone thinks it is important, and no-one can describe it. In surveys, most people in most countries say they are happy. If happiness is the state of a majority of people living in England, then either life in London is very different from life in any other town, or happiness really doesn't mean much. It may have started out as a respectable idea, but ever since it took up with the utilitarians, it's been staying out late and coming home drunk, smelling of politics.
Let's be a little careful here. My Chambers tells me "happy" means: "lucky; fortunate; expressing...content; well-being; pleasure, or good; apt; felicitous; carefree; confident; mildly drunk (slang)." This is not what therapists and counsellors mean, and it is not what your manager means when she asks you if you're happy in your job.
What they mean is that you are not feeling discontent, upset and wanting to be somewhere else. Therapists and counsellors deal with people who are miserable, discontent, depressed, obsessed, angry and a hundred other negative feelings. All of them wish not to suffer the pain of those feelings, and all of them will say that either they don't want to be depressed (or whatever) all the time, or that they "want to be happy". Used in this context, "happiness" is nothing more than the absence of whatever toxic and dysfunctional feelings we want to be rid of. Your manager wants you to say you're happy because then they don't have to worry about you. You don't need a pay rise, bonus, perks, training and development, or promotion, nor are you likely to up and go leaving them with an empty position the hiring freeze won't let them fill. Your partner in a relationship that has long been more habit than passion wants you to say you're happy because then you are not going to leave or have an affair and they don't have to bother with you any more than they aren't already. Politicians want the electorate to be happy so they will be voted in again and don't have to re-build the schools, make sure the hospitals are clean and staffed, let alone mend the roads and stop companies shipping jobs overseas.
I used to think that Gilbert Ryle's definition was about right: to be happy is to be doing what you want to be doing and not wanting to be doing anything else. I've always thought that sounded slightly like the state of mind of an Englishman tending to his garden, but you have to appreciate the subtlety of that "not wanting to be doing anything else". Now I think Ryle was really talking about a particular state of mind that used to be called "being absorbed" and is more trendily called "flow". To call this loss-of-self "happiness" is concept-stretching way past breaking point.
Most philosophers have understood that if happiness is to be the desired state of human life, there's a lot at stake when you define it. Especially if you include the aspect of contentment. That's why Aristotle was canny enough to separate happiness from mere pleasure and thus be able to equate happiness with virtuous action and living. Because if happiness is the goal of human life, then it can't just be a feeling, or else it could be satisfied by taking Soma, Aldous Huxley's happy drug in Brave New World, and tolerating the most awful injustices and atrocities. Isn't it good to be happy? Not if you can happily cheat your customers. Not if you're wilfully ignorant of facts that would upset you or deluded about your chances in the world. Is it good to be miserable? As long as you make the changes in your life you need to stop the misery. Don't I want people to be happy? Not if it means that in their colossal complacency they get dumber, fatter and uglier, and make the world a less pleasant place for the rest of us. There's nothing wrong with being happy, but there's more to life than feeling content. (Remember, when the Founding Fathers talked about the Pursuit of Happiness, they meant the practice of those occupations and pastimes that you want to do, they didn't mean getting high.)
If you're still not convinced that "happiness" has turned into a scam, recall the "research" by the New Economics Foundation allegedly showing that happiness increases with salary up to about the national median wage, and doesn't improve much after that. What an astonishingly convenient piece of research that is for employers - the largest of whom is the State.
Most people would, if asked, say they were happy: it's almost rude not to. It takes a John Stuart Mill to affirm that "it is better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a pig satisfied". When I think about it, I have been neither happy nor content in my entire life. Ecstatic, transported, absorbed, lost-in-wonder, giggling-in-mischief, relieved, entranced, amazed, laughing-my-socks-off, pleased, calm, rested, joyous... a hundred positive emotions, but never "happy". Maybe people who say they are "happy" just don't have the vocabulary to name accurately what they are feeling.
And maybe philosophers talk about happiness out of habit. It is, after all, just another state of mind. It's not even clear that it is a valuable state of mind. The question that philosophers should be asking is: what value do the various states of mind have? Even self-pity has its time. You can think of your current state of mind as a some kind of reaction to your circumstances. You can let yourself be conned by New Age pseudo-psychologists into thinking that you can make your state of mind what you want it to be - so that it's your fault you're miserable. Or you can view your state of mind as a tool to help you get done what you need to do. I can't think of one thing that happiness helps me get done, but I do like that light, cheerful feeling when the air is fresh, the sky is blue, the sun is shining and I'm in the South of France with a day job to come back to at the end of the holiday.
Friday, 4 February 2011
What I Want From My Holidays
You will remember I had a bad case of the blahs last year and didn't see the point of spending lots of money to be fed up in a foreign country when I could do it for free at home. If i'm not careful, I'll do it again this year, and I'd rather not. So what do I want from my holidays? Fantasies first, reality later.
No old people. This is getting to be a real problem. Go on sunny-places holidays in the off-season and there are eighty-year-olds in the hotels. Pushing retirement is one thing, cheating the grave is another. I know I'm no spring chicken, but, no, eighty-year olds are depressing. My work colleagues are attractive people in their twenties - I have high standards.
No bald people with tattoos from Essex at the pool bar. That cuts out every beach hotel in the world except possibly a Four Seasons.
I'd like to sleep for ten hours a day. I get about six hours a night, seven if I'm lucky, and eight leaves me feeling actually rested.
No old people. This is getting to be a real problem. Go on sunny-places holidays in the off-season and there are eighty-year-olds in the hotels. Pushing retirement is one thing, cheating the grave is another. I know I'm no spring chicken, but, no, eighty-year olds are depressing. My work colleagues are attractive people in their twenties - I have high standards.
No bald people with tattoos from Essex at the pool bar. That cuts out every beach hotel in the world except possibly a Four Seasons.
No poor places. You may be comfortable with the thought that you are paid more in a week than the families in the mud huts round the hotel make in a decade, but I'm not.
No days on the coach, or on the train - unless it's a sleeper or a TGV and Julie Delpy is sitting across the table from me. I spend five days a week commuting. This is a holiday. I want everything within walking distance, or a short-ish cab ride.
No long flights in cramped seats with wailing babies. Yep. That pretty much cuts out air travel.
I'd like to sleep for ten hours a day. I get about six hours a night, seven if I'm lucky, and eight leaves me feeling actually rested.
Blue skies. Sunshine. Temperatures no higher than 80F at noon and no lower than about 55F at night. Good restaurants. Things To Look At. Places To Hang Out In: cafes, beaches, gardens with swimming pools. In fantasy land, I'd like to meet someone and carry on a flirtation. Actual sex would be amazing - if I can remember what to do and why at the same time. Failing that, broadband access.
Ask me what the best holiday I had was, and I'll say it was two days in Paris, an overnight sleeper to Nice and an overnight sleeper back, followed by a TGV to Amsterdam for a weekend staying with friends. I'm not sure I really like the idea of seven days in one place, but two here and two there sounds about right. Nice-Sardinia-Paris. Milan-Basle. I don't need to get to know a place: it's not like I'm going to live there. I need it to be not-England.
What I'll tell you if I'm feeling cynical is that I'd like a week not being me. That's not quite true. I'd like a week when I don't have to amuse and busy myself all the time - gotta see the sights, visit the galleries, pretending I'm having a holiday, pretending this is a rest.
Maybe I should just go on a retreat. Four days in a monastery.
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