This is an interesting time for me - an additional no-man's land within the same mid-twenties purgatory about which I constantly seem to moan, if only internally. Tomorrow I shall have been back for exactly six weeks, the first three of which were spent moving house (three times, with a fourth scheduled for early April) and generally getting to grips with being back in London and, thankfully, back in employment; the last three of which have been dedicated to resurrecting and enforcing the routines with which I was happy before I left the country: sensible diet, gym, abstinence from alcohol (and subsequently women, as it seems to be the case that for many men the latter rarely materialise successfully without the former - on past evidence, I am certainly no exception to this rule).
In fact, barring a single glass of wine with a meal at a friend's, I haven't touched a drop in the last six weeks, and I currently intend to keep this up for the forseeable future. I think that when I look back on my mid-twenties, one of the things that will characterise them for me will be self-discipline, at which I am getting increasingly proficient. Hardly Buddah-esque, but proficient. On the other hand, it is exactly because I have lost so much weight and am unhappy with the way I look that I am forcing myself to forgo the short-term hedonistic pleasures in favour of long-term physical and psychological gains. I look forward to seeing the results.
I turn 27 in less than a week. Not much to say in addition to last year's birthday rant, except that perhaps I am destined to play my birthday down indefinitely in secret anticipation that someone special might one year come along and illuminate it for me. [Edited...]
