OK, I’m becoming faintly worried. Because I went to the gym tonight. See, when I joined the gym, it was my intent to go on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. The thought that I’m enjoying it enough that I’m going on nights outside of the routine I’ve set myself is, well, scary. I mean, yeah, so I decided to put getting in shape ahead of everything else in my life, including my writing. But I didn’t think I’d find myself getting home at nine o’clock at night, and thinking “what shall I do now? I know! I’ll got to the gym!” For someone who, six months ago, would have torn your arm off at the shoulder had you tried to take my cigarettes and lard away from me, to find myself eating healthy food, taking exercise and not shoving any more toxins into my body that strictly nessecary, well, I’m forced to ask “who am I, and what have I done with the real Alasdair Watson?”

Oh, and before anyone says it: whiskey and coffee are fundamental to my continued ability to operate like a human being, and as such are absolutely required toxins.

Mind you, the glass of red wine I had after getting in from the gym wasn’t. Perhaps there’s hope yet.

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