Neglectmaxxing my body

I have been neglectmaxxing my body this week, lamenting on the sofa like a Victorian swoon, re-watching re-runs, micro-dosing my way through severe Cadbury’s withdrawal. Right now, the mortal coil is structurally sound—I do need a tan—but the joints are creaky, the muscles turgid. I want to take a flexibility course, spend days and weeks on the mat somewhere tropical, contorting myself like a squeaky party balloon, working out the knots like a diligent boy scout. I would honestly go on a yoga retreat, but I’m worried there’s too much moon-howling.

I want to be as nimble as a cat burglar in the south of France, as frolic-y as when they flashback to the dead wife on a beach in a film, the core strength of Kylie Minogue coming out as an ejected cd for her 2002 brit awards performance.

Every few weeks I go fish mad, just thinking about how cool fish are and maybe actually the whole sea? I’m not sure how deeply we should get into my love of the ocean, a place of great joy and possibility, that you also have to respect in terms of grandeur. The sea can be your friend, the sea can be a danger. So many good things happen in the sea like the little mermaid and war subs and the titanic. Tides are lunar. Sea foam is romantic. Watertightness is a flex. I know it’s mainly grunt-work, but I’d love to be a sailor, not only for the uniforms, but the thrill of piracy, the swerving of scurvy, the hoisting of the mainsails. Being a fisherman on a commercial trawler is dead masc (being one of those local river guys is not). There’s something medieval society about gutting a fish with your bare hands, a return to a simpler, gilded, analogue time like the Caliphate but also not like the Caliphate. More like Hamnet (I haven’t see it, but you don’t need to to vibe the era).

Found my next hyperfix, and it’s ordering a cheeky side of sausages, which happened when I deserted my family for a solo night at Claridge’s. At breakfast, two extra fingers of pork are very I’m on vacation in Europe and the day is going to unfurl pleasantly in front of me as I work my way through this vintage penguin paperback. At lunch you order them “for the table” but you know it’s a lie. At dinner, they go well with oysters, making you feel like a banqueting mean-spirited king just before a witch punishes him for his attitude. Of all the phallic treats—gherkins, corn dogs, mini-milks—they’re they most joyous, like chewing a Sunny D. I think of a side-sausage as a meat cigar: a superfluous addendum that brings the moment to life.

We’re house hunting, primarily because I’ve reached capacity on the number of baby toys I can tread on while bringing a lil snack from the fridge to the tv. I want a house with lot of potential and great bone structure, like me at 20. It needs to be as inexpensive as I was then, too. Mainlining Zoopla leaves you feeling like Oliver Twist watching a billionaire’s AD tour, and a 19th-century workhouse orphan should see a tap that does cold, boiling and sparkling water. The searching has led to an awareness of my own architectural bankruptcy. Where are my former-factory vaulted proportions? Where is my mirror-finished guest loo? Where’s my whimsical chair with legs like Harry Potter’s scar? I find myself in a house full of things we either spent too much on, or, guttingly, not quite enough. I am genuinely planning to nail-gun a rug to my wall but that’s not particularly billionaire.

Bit anorexic to love a Lego cake, but here we are. It’s the kind of thing I’ll have in my house for six months and then promptly get the ick and re-home.