The guilt pangs that post Christmas excesses bring mean that it’s prime time from health club recruitment. Round here there’s all sorts of offers available to lure the unsuspecting blubberbuster into handing over a big fat monthly sum in the form of a direct debit. With no intention of signing on any dotted line, Mr Metrosexual, Barbie Doll and I went swimming at a swanky spa for a fiver last night. To top off a cheap night out I came armed with a bag of stuff from the fridge. Being careful not to let Mr Metrosexual see the mouldy edges I cut off a red pepper, I cooked huevos alla flamenco, Spanish Eggs as it’s known to Anglophiles, for him and his partner Ruff Stew. I must post that recipe at some time. It’s a good’un!
And so it’s just after 6am and I find myself tucked up cosily in Mr Metrosexual’s spare room. Even though I desperately need a wee I’m crossing my legs as I’m trying not to wake the sleeping beauties next door. What’s more this is a Luddite neighbourhood. There’s no Internet connection within range. Mr Metrosexual is himself one of the few people under pensionable age who doesn’t have a computer in his home. What’s more, my phone, which I can use as a dongle, is in the lounge. To retrieve it would also disturb ‘mein hosts. There’s no option but to work offline.
And how liberating that’s been! Instead of being tempted off in every direction by all that the World Wide Web has to offer, I’ve been left distraction free. Before writing this, I’ve added a few words to the novel and jotted down a few ideas for a scheme I’m brewing. I might never have done this on a normal, wireless assisted day. Might I deliberately disconnect myself from the Internet in the future. Well, it’s a thought.