Oh man, do I ever hate jetlag. After an endless journey back from Honolulu, passing through several time zones with a cheery wave and thumbs-up, my body has no clue what time it is or where I am. In fact my body hates me. Only last night I woke up to find it packing bags ready to do a moonlight flit. Fortunately I persuaded it to stay with a solemn promise not to timezone-hop for a few weeks at least.
At the moment I find myself wide awake when I should be asleep, and nodding off when I should be my usual alert, incisively sharp self. Several daytimes this week I’ve woken suddenly, chin on my chest, dribble on my shirt, bewilderedly looking around wondering where I was and where the last couple of hours have gone. All good practice for when I’m in my seventies of course, but a bit frustrating now.
Still, the trip seems to have done me the power of good. A month of endless walking to places and a gratifyingly small alcohol consumption has left me svelter than I’ve been for a long time. While there’s little danger of not seeing me when I turn sideways I am nonetheless of a distinctly less Bunteresque girth than when I left. To capitalise on this I have given up the food of the gods, namely salt and vinegar Hula Hoops, and within a couple of weeks will be nothing short of a svelte hunkerama. Or something.
So this week I have to record a voiceover for one of my Holiday programme films, and then I think I have to go to Scotland after that. I have no real idea what year it is at the moment, let alone anything more specific, so I’d better get myself sorted out. Still March 31st is the book deadline, that’s the important thing. We haven’t passed that yet, have we..?