Fright of the navigator

I’ve recently discovered (again) that my metabolism has a tight leash on my appetite, making it nearly impossible to eat unthinkingly unless I want to fill out like a schoolgirl with a bad donut habit.

It’s not that I make poor choices when I’m hungry or even that I eat past the feeling of fullness – it’s just that unless I’m eating the same sandwich day in and day out and feeling excruciatingly hungry and/or unfulfilled, I gain weight.

To be fair, I’ve been a bit more careless about food these days and haven’t been consistent in my walking either. So a few days ago, I walked to work for the first time in ages after Bruce dropped me off at an appointment (secret appointment!) located along my route. Now instead of walking up Bermondsey Street towards London Bridge, I head up Tabbard Street and turn right at Borough High Street, where I would end up anyway.

Then this morning, Bruce found a better and (in theory) easier route for me to follow and suggested I try it. I told him I might save that for another day, since I was likely to get lost. Ever patient, he didn’t push the issue and I started off to work as usual.

But coming up Tabbard Street, and having spotted one major landmark he’d mentioned, I had the sudden inkling that I might be able to do it after all. Those bloody inklings of mine.

I’m not sure what made me think I could follow a route I didn’t take much notice of map-wise in the first place because I’d never intended to follow it. But I did think this, and it wasn’t very long before my elated sense of accomplishment turned to dry-mouthed panic when my shitty sense of direction conceded with my fantastic sense of being lost that I was definitely not on the right track anymore.

Christ knows how, but I zipped along uncharted territory until I stumbled smack onto the street where I work. But I had no idea which direction would take me to the river and I was much too embarrassed to ask a stranger. So instead I called Bruce and used the familiar landmark of his voice to calmly point me in the right direction, which I eventually found, much to his mirth.

So I’ve had my sandwich and - with the extra fifteen minutes tacked onto my usual walk - I’m feeling confident that in another week the scale at home will begin to tip in my favour once more. I’m also confident that I will never again try to go anywhere I’ve never been without a map in my pocket or a local at my side.

Speaking of which, I am adapting horribly to the new content management system I’m required to use for another piece of work I’ve acquired. I’m also incredibly awkward about admitting defeat and just asking the team for help. This is okay though, because according to this book on British behaviour, my general disposition – awkwardness and all - fits right into their social code of ethics. Whoda thunk it?

Hey, so how about that photo? That was me, steering a small fishing vessel on the Adriatic moments before a look of panic registered on the otherwise impassive face of Bojana's father and he instructed her in hurried Serbo-Croatian to take over for f*ck's sake! (he probably didn't say this, though he said something to cut my piloting short).