Fac Mac has recently taken a turn for the worse.
Back in May, we managed to get him relatively fit enough to walk the Singalila Ridge, as I described here. During that trek, each morning we got him moving after breakfast with the suggestion that there was probably a bar at the next village (knowing ourselves that there wasn’t), and by the sixth day he was actually walking alongside the Little Boss at the front of the group.
Since returning to the UK he’s been spending his time doing nothing all day long, and then soaking for two hours in the new bathroom that his daughter organised for him. Then, early evening, he goes to the off license for a carry-out of six bottles of whatever beer is on offer that day. Apart from that, he’s not been getting out much at all.
When I suggested that he wasn’t getting enough exercise, he protested, and said that he’s been doing regular toe yoga whilst in the bath.
Toe yoga! Toe yoga won’t get you fit.
His six-pack has turned into a one-bag, and a large one at that. A stone-and-a-half of lard! When he goes down the three flights of stairs from his flat in Stockbridge to get to the offie next-door-but-one, just like marching soldiers crossing a bridge, if he doesn’t break step his stomach gets into an irreversible up-and-down motion which can carry him face-forwards into the tenement front door.
I do my best. I suggested a cycle ride, but he said he’s too embarrassed about his body to be seen in public, and can we not wait for the dull and go to a bar and drink beer instead.