22 weeks exactly. And, by my reckoning, Wednesday will see the arrival of 5 calender months drug free.
So all remains well in the regime of positivity. But, it is not without its hiccups. Burps? Belches? No, it should really be potentially dangerous farts.
Firstly, I am not impervious to a return to my negative, cynical ways. Yes, your Honour, I plead guilty as charged. The evidence is irrefutable
Lovely-wife and I took Boy2 and several of his little buddies out for pizza followed by the cinema. We went to see 'Alice in Wonderland' in 3D. Now, I'm no technophobe, or fearful of what the future holds. On the contrary, I rejoice in the distance elec-trickery has travelled in my adult lifetime alone: from the birth of the CD and fully wired telephone with dialer, to phones that go in your pocket and include music, film, GPS, and the ability to be a steadily emptied beer glass amoungst their functions. However, I draw the line at 3D film. Show me a 3D film and I'll show you a perfectly good story mangled in the attempt to crowbar in visuals worthy of the 3rd dimension. AND, although the glasses have improved (like being in the cinema at a Roy Orbison convention), is it really any better than Jaws 3D in 1983... As the credits rolled at the end, I turned to lovely-wife and said "Well, that wasn't much good was it?" and she replied with conviction "Yes, I think the ENTIRE cinema knows what YOU thought of it..."
My football club (faithfully served for the best part of 27 years) is currently on the verge of becoming the first top-flight club to go completely belly-up. Disappear. No longer exist. Cease to be. Become an ex-club. We've already achieved administration - a british first for a club of its 'size'. It's very hard not to get sucked into the disgust and opprobrium reserved for the apparent 'management' of the club. It's hard not to shout and scream at the TV. It's hard not spend the final 15 minutes of each game on my knees in front of the radio. I've contemplated giving up football. But it's got me in its clutches firmer than the UC.
Teenagers. Teenagers at work. Teenagers at home... God knows their mumbling inarticulacy and gangly loitering are enough to drive a saint back to the drink...
And, so it comes as no surprise to find that I am occasionally still at the mercy of bowel-behaviour. This weekend has seen such an episode. Something has occured gut-side, but I can't work out what. Suffice to say that yesterday was windy and last night I lay awake for the most part hypnotised by the extended gurgling coming from my colon, each time violently punctuated by (what my old whoopie cushion would have described as) 'a real Bronx Cheer' - is that how they cheer in the Bronx? A loud and fruity rasp? I shan't be asking if i ever find myself there... The only positive I could come up with between the sheets, when not assuming that if I fell asleep I would shit myself, was that should my house be broken into by murderous burglers they would surely choke to death upon entry to my bedroom. I have spent most of today (thankfully calmer at the pant end of things - a farting teacher is never to be lived down) going back through what I ate with a fine-toothed comb. Er, I mean mentally as opposed to actually scrapping through my poo. Could it have been that bit of houmous I had? Or that tomato relish? Or those apple and cinnamon teacakes? Or those Kettle Chips? Or that weird chewing-gum 'with a kick' someone gave me? Or those olives (probably, but come on, I only had 3. Or 4). And soon I'm going to brew up a gutful of stress.
So. Only one course of action. Bland out the diet (grilled chicken and rice anyone? Toast?) and give the NLP tapes a bash. Kill those negative vibes man. Well, shoo them away at least, eh?
A final thought: follow this link to Charlie Brooker (of the Guardian)'s column where he reviews an awful TV program in his inimitable style. Stay to the end for the most hilarious description of having a poo I've read for ages.