The Peeping Tom

 

Part of my daily pandemic routine involves getting up on a normal working day and, after feeding the two demanding young cats that are my new masters, I go for a three-mile walk. This happens at roughly 6am in the morning when most sane people are asleep in their warm beds dreaming of a time when the world isn’t being ravaged by a nasty virus.

In the winter months a walk can be an unpleasant experience; it is dark, cold and sometimes pouring with rain. You may ask what the appeal of subjecting myself to the cold and hostile elements of Manchester at 6am in January can be.

I ask myself the very same question.

However, at that time of day, whether it is January or March, it is really peaceful. There are very few cars and people around and the streets are calm and quiet. I remember that I used to love walking the streets doing a morning paper round as a kid for exactly the same reason.

I can walk along, drift into my own little world and contemplate life, the universe and everything, while at the same time getting some exercise. Sometimes I am accompanied by Mrs PM, other times I am on my own with just my iPod for company.

It is blissful, even when it is raining.

There is one downside though and try as I might, I find that I cannot avoid it.

I sometimes feel like I am a Peeping Tom.

Okay, I can imagine that you are considering clicking the little X in the corner of your browser window now and the one thought that is running through your head is “I didn’t know that this man was such a bloody pervert!” and imagine me creeping up to people’s houses to peer into their window with a lecherous and leering look on my grinning face.

You are 100% wrong.

Allow me to explain and hopefully put your mind at rest. As I walk along the street in the darkness of a cold, winter morning, I find my gaze drifting towards houses and seeing no lights in most of them because people are in bed. Sometimes, however, I see the odd bedroom light on. On other occasions, people are up and about and downstairs lights are on.

In almost all cases, the people concerned value their privacy and keep their blinds, shutters or curtains closed.

Sadly, there are those people – let’s call them exhibitionists – who want to let everybody outside know exactly what they are doing. These people open their curtains, blinds or whatever, switch on their lights and then, for reasons I have yet to fathom, do whatever they need to do in full view of anybody who happened to be walking outside their house.

I am very paranoid about allowing people to stare into my house when it is dark outside. My curtains and shutters are closed as soon as the sun sinks behind the horizon and they remain so until I am fully dressed and sun has popped up again. 

The last thing I want to see is a person – any person – gazing into my house as I go about my business. 

Now I can imagine another thought going through your head dear reader – “What on Earth are you doing in your house that you don’t want people to see?”

The answer is “Nothing – of course!” What do you think I am? I am just a normal geezer and I am nothing like this bloke or any of the people he spies on:

Call me weird if you like but I like my privacy.

And this is why, when I see these people opening themselves to the world for all to see at 6am on a dark winter morning, I think they are peculiar.

Why would you do that? 

And I can now guess that thinking – “Well, Peeping Tom, you don’t HAVE to look.”

And you would be right (except for calling me Peeping Tom). I don’t have to look but I find my eyes subconsciously drawn to any light source at that time of the morning. I’m not even aware that I am doing it until see somebody eating his breakfast staring back at me. 

In my head, I am miles away on a voyage through my imagination thinking about budding novels about vampires, aliens and space wars. The last thing I want to see is an old bloke eating his cornflakes in his pyjamas.

When this happens, I have a deep urge to march up to his window and scream “Shut your bloody curtains, man! Nobody wants see you chomping on your toast in your jim-jams you bloody weirdo!”

Of course, I don’t do that and you will be pleased to know that I avert my eyes from these exhibitionists as quickly as possible.

They can ruin my walk. I am brought crashing back to reality, away from the space opera in my head and as I continue, I have to start again and expunge the image of the old so and so from my brain, lest it remain there and ruin my creativity.

Thankfully, it is now March and as I take my walks, my eyes can be drawn towards the rising sun and the wonderful dawns that appear instead of electric lights showing people getting dressed. 

They are much more wonderful as you can see here from a photo taken late last week.

When I am World President, exhibitionism will become a crime and anybody caught revealing the insides of their homes at 6am on a British Winter morning will be confined to their houses throughout summer with their blinds, shutters and curtains nailed shut. 

Apart from that I shall be a benevolent leader – I just don’t like exhibitionists.

Look What I Found In My Head

Every day at work, I leave my desk at lunchtime, armed with my smartphone and my iPod and set off on a circular walk of just over two miles. My aim is fourfold:

(1) Get a little exercise.

(2) Escape the confines of the office.

(3) Enjoy some music.

(4) Clear my head.

I want to focus on item (4).

As I stroll around the streets, my mind wanders, replacing the inevitable stress and tedium of office work with a journey through my own imagination, accompanied by a musical soundtrack of songs that I love.

And that journey is usually quite fruitful.

The experience feels like I am in a room with thousands of doors. The journey begins when I open one of the doors and go through. The choice of door depends on my mood, the music I am listening to, the day I have had so far and random thoughts that have popped into my head based on conversations, news – anything really.

Ultimately I hope to find something interesting – like this idea for a blog post for example.

I am fascinated by the train of thought that eventually leads to the gems I find inside my own head. Sometimes they are good things but occasionally they are not do good. For example, if I am in a bad mood, or a little depressed about something, I find that sometimes it is difficult to drag myself from a negative path. In that respect I understand how depressed people think – I know this first hand because Mrs PM is prone to depression and in these situations it is difficult if not impossible to escape the irrational downward spiral that follows.

Happily, I have experience of seeing this is other people and can assist, if only to be the person who comforts them or to be a shoulder to cry on, so to speak. Of course, it is not as simple as that and, thankfully, Mrs PM is in control of it.

I don’t suffer from depression myself but if a negative thought threatens to enter my head and cause a negative cycle, I switch my mind to something that will distract it – like changing the song on my iPod of taking a moment to look around as I walk. This helps usually; rather like leaving the bad door alone and finding another more interesting one to go through. It doesn’t always work – and I have struggled sometimes in 2017 to be fair – but things are improving.

Sometimes, exploring my imagination can cause embarrassment. Here are a couple of examples.

Picture the scene. I am walking along oblivious to my surroundings and listening to a fantastic and happy song - a song such as this:

I find myself walking in step to the beat and imagine myself as the artist. The problem is that my step becomes jaunty and bouncy and on a couple of occasion I have actually started mouthing the words. If I have my headphones in, I can’t actually tell whether I am actually singing – I might be. In which case, it’s no surprise that I have acquired a few strange looks by people queuing up at a bus stop I have walked past.

On other occasions, a song has reminded me of a funny incident in the past caused an involuntary guffaw that is difficult to control and fuels yet more laughter, making me look like some kind of idiot marching along the streets.

Also, if I see somebody I know as I walk, I try to be polite and greet them as we pass. However, because of my headphones, it is more difficult to judge volume.

“Hi Dave,” they will say as we approach!

“HI ANDY,” I bellow at the top of my voice, in an attempt to drown out both the heavy metal song in my ears and the noise of cars, lorries and buses roaring past on the main road.

When I get back to work, I face the inevitable consequences.

“Why were you yelling at me in the street, Dave?”

Thankfully, this doesn’t happen very often and my walks are uneventful to watch.  The good news for me is that I have around 10,000 novel ideas as a result of my lunchtime walks. The bad news is that when I get back to work, I never write them down because the moment I sit back down at my desk, the shit hits the fan and I am plunged back into the abyss of the rat race before I have the time to write down a paragraph about invisible mutant aliens turning people into slaves.

However, I am certainly more relaxed and, for an hour or so at least, I find myself going about the daily grind with a smile on my face and a more relaxed approach to work.

I recommend you try it, dear reader. Once a day, grab hold of your own musical device and walk around the streets of your town or city for half an hour or so. Take off the chains of your imagination, walk through an interesting door and see where it leads you.

In almost all cases you will be amazed.

And for any Mancunians out there, if you see a greying blond nutcase singing or laughing as he walks – it might just be me.

Feel free to say “Hi Dave!” – I will try not to yell back at you.

The Battle of the Bulge

I am fighting another war and to be honest it is not one that I saw coming. Consequently, I am lagging behind.

But I am fighting back.

I am engaged in the Battle of the Bulge, dear reader; me versus my expanding waistline.

When I was a kid, I was so skinny that the term “bag of bones” was a fairly accurate description. I was like a living skeleton with skin tightly wrapped around my frame, with only a little muscle to hold it in place and make me look vaguely human.

I was thin – terribly thin. Yet I had a massive appetite and a fantastic metabolism and I could, quite literally, eat a horse and burn it off without blinking, belching or farting. If I ate a crisp you could see it travel down my neck before reaching my stomach where it was napalmed out of existence and added to my energy intake.

As a kid I used to think that my inner combustion engine was like the world’s greatest nuclear reactor that could break down anything thrown at it.

“I don’t know where he puts it,” my mum used to say, and to be honest neither did I.

The food I consumed gave me loads of energy. I used to run everywhere, like a little whippet. I played football in the park, swam, played squash, badminton, rugby, athletics, cricket – you name it, I tried it. I was in the school cross country team and at the end of each race I felt alive. I had a newspaper round and I carried a bag full of daily missives around the streets, running the entire time.

And I still ate loads, my nuclear digestion giving me enormous bursts of vitality allowing me to pursue all of my sporting activities with ease.

Even at university, when I cut down the exercise slightly (only slightly, mind you), I still ate vast quantities of food, especially chocolate, crisps and other things that were extremely fattening and they were absorbed without adding anything to my body fat.

Nothing changed – even when I settled down into working and married life.

I still ate loads and only put on a little weight, which vanished whenever my ex-wife, W, decided to go on a diet. She often battled with her weight (and usually won) but whenever she made a supreme effort and ate more healthily (with whatever the latest dieting fad was at the time), I lost weight too - and very easily. It used to infuriate her. I simply ate massive quantities of whatever she was eating and while the pounds slipped off slowly for W, they dropped off me.

In my early thirties, I remember standing in front of a mirror, staring at my naked reflection, and thinking to myself “I’m still a bag of bones.”

And I was.

Even at the age of 32, I could see my rib cage and my stomach was totally flat. I had no muscle to speak of at all.

I became blasé about it all. I was blissfully unaware that at some point my nuclear digestion would begin to falter. To me, the Battle of the Bulge was something I would never have to fight. Obesity, for me, was an enemy that was too terrified to take me on. I would never be fat.

How wrong I was.

It is difficult to pinpoint the exact time that I noticed things starting to change. I have a feeling that it might have coincided with my 40th birthday.

I noticed that my weight was increasing. “Time for a diet,” I thought. I recalled that when W had inadvertently put me on a diet, my weight dropped. It would again – wouldn’t it?

Nope!! Not at all.

I ate more healthy food and the weight didn’t go. I actually joined a gym and started to exercise more, but the weight only drifted off a little. All of a sudden, I had a minor weight problem. I couldn’t believe it.

And it has been that way ever since. I have had to cut down on the amount of food I eat and have all but eliminated fattening food like chocolate, crisps, cakes etc. in favour of fruit.

People tell me that I am not fat and to be honest, I’m not really. The problem is I recall standing in front of the mirror and seeing a bag of bones.

Now it looks as if somebody has tried to inflate me. If I compare that mental image of myself aged 32 with the naked image I saw this morning, the difference is frightening.

I have moobs and a little podgy stomach. My shoulders are looking broader and my face is fatter. Things are drooping, dear reader – DROOPING.

People who haven’t seen me for a few years keep saying things like “My God – you’ve put on weight, Dave.”

And that hurts.

I have therefore decided to declare war on another front and try to rediscover the physique of my youth.

Stop laughing! Stop laughing right now!

I can do this – I know I can. I actually decided to start in December when I stood on the bathroom scales at the height of Christmas over-indulgence only to leap off in shock.

“GET OFF ME YOU BIG FAT LUMP OF BLUBBER!” yelled the contraption and it wasn’t even a “Speak Your Weight” machine.

I have to confess, dear reader, that I am not actually that fat. I am just a little overweight. The problem is that I am not used to it and I don’t like it at all.

I aim to lose a stone – then I will be happy. Nonetheless, just losing a few pounds can be difficult. The main problem is the food I like. I don’t want to give it up.

Why is it that the food that tastes best also adds several inches to your waistline? I love crisps, bacon, sausage, burgers, beer, pizza, cheese, chips, steak, hot dogs, mayonnaise, ice cream, fried chicken, curry, pies, kebabs, cheese on toast, biscuits, doughnuts, etc. etc.

It's like a sick joke.

The good news is that I am not a fan of chocolate and cakes so I can easily avoid such items. Sadly, there is one temptress that taunts me every time I open the fridge door. My nemesis is a giant slab of cheese.

“Go on,” it whispers. “Just a couple of slices of cheese on toast. You know you want to.”

I have resisted so far. Since December I have managed to lose about four pounds. I haven’t necessarily stopped eating crap but I have cut down, substituting an apple for a bag of crisps for example. Also, doing a bit more exercise has helped (though I have managed to hurt myself slightly doing Tae-Bo, so much so that I have decided to cut down on it a little on that too – don’t tell Billy Blanks).

I reckon that by spring, when the weather improves and the days grow longer, I shall be ready to get on my bike, quite literally.

This is a war I shall win – as long as I can resist the call of the cheese.

Plumping Iron

I am considering the best way to get fit, dear reader, and I am in a bit of a quandary.

Mrs PM says that I should join a gym. It’s a good suggestion but one that I have a bit of a problem with. You see, dear reader, I have been a member of the gym in the past and I know that it is not for me.

Allow me to explain.

The first problem is the cash. Gym membership is expensive and the only way to get value for money is to go on a regular basis. A few years ago, I joined the local gym, newly opened and very modern. It had everything I needed from such a place: a swimming pool, sauna, equipment, canteen, personal trainers, TV, classes and five star changing rooms.

It was New Year and I was determined to rediscover the fitness of my youth. And as an incentive, the cost was relatively cheap – or so Mrs PM told me.

“HOW MUCH?” I screamed when she told me the cost. Unfortunately, I only screamed within my own head and I watched in horror as Mrs PM signed both of us up for six month membership, including a signing on fee.

“WHAT, IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS SANE, ARE YOU DOING?” screamed my wallet when it heard the price.

I think burning my own cash might have been more cost effective.

Having signed away my income with blood and sweat, I decided to make a supreme effort. My personal trainer took me around the equipment, showing me how to use the various machines, including cross trainers, running machines, cycling machines, rowing machines and all manner of contraptions for lifting weights using various parts of my body. He even came up with a workout routine for me that involved spending forty minutes of cardiovascular exercise followed by a further half an hour of circuit training culminating with various methods for cooling down.

I recall that first session with horror.

I entered the gym and mentally calculated how many fivers I could have burned at home. I changed into my sporting gear and, as I left the changing room, caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

“Cripes,” I thought. “What a scrawny fat git!”

Then I realised that I was looking at myself. And yes, dear reader, I was scrawny at the top of my body, yet fat around my middle. I was a walking paradox.

All the other guys who were getting changed looked athletic and muscular, making me look like a badly stuffed scarecrow in comparison.

And this was the second problem, dear reader.

I looked totally out of place. Here I was, a forty-something, trying to look cool while surrounded by athletes who were already totally fit, toned and honed and using the gym to put the finishing touches to an already fine physique.

I was paying money to embarrass myself. I bit the bullet and went for it.

My first port of call was a cycling machine. Armed with headphones, I perched myself on a machine and started watching the TV as I cycled. From the corner of my eye, I saw a lovely lady on the machine next to me – she was pedalling furiously. Just in front was a guy who was also pedalling as if his life depended on it.

The testosterone floodgates opened. I wouldn’t allow myself to look like a sad old pillock in front of these two young athletes. I ignored my workout programme and pedalled as if the hounds of hell were on my tail.

Ten minutes later, I got off the machine and almost passed out. I was gasping for breath but I just stumbled away, muttering something like “Good workout,” to try to hide the fact that I was about to fall apart.

And that was when I tried the cross trainer.

Next to me was another young woman who made it look easy. I climbed onto the contraption and followed the instructions, programming the thing to give me the workout that the personal trainer had recommended.

Within ten minutes, the thing had me doing all sorts of crap.

“Pedal backwards – now forwards – now with your arms – now with your legs”, read the display as it showed me how badly coordinated and unfit I was. It was like a mechanical bootcamp sergeant.

I was half expecting the thing to suddenly scream at me:

“What do you think you are doing you blubbery lump of dog meat? You look like a bag of mad badgers.”

Thankfully it didn’t have a voice.

Feeling totally humiliated, I decided to go circuit training and encountered problem number three, dear reader.

All of the contraptions were occupied by huge men whose sole purpose was to fill the entire room with muscle. I felt totally inadequate – like a twig standing next to a Giant Redwood.

One of the machines I was supposed to use was free. I was about to sit down when a big booming voice said “I haven’t finished yet.”

Standing behind me was a huge black guy, covered in sweat with bulging veins that were bigger than my arms.

“I’ll be five minutes, mate,” he boomed. “Wait there.”

I watched him set the weight to something just short of “ELEPHANT” and then lift the colossal chunks of metal with absolute ease, blowing and puffing as he went. It was mesmerising – the man was a monster.

I must have been stargazing because I didn’t notice him get up. Either that or was I in a state of shock.

“Do your best,” he boomed, slapping me on the back. I almost went sprawling. He watched as I sat down and adjusted the weights – to “WIMP” (the lowest setting). He chuckled as he walked to the next machine where he would undoubtedly lift three ten ton weights.

My ego was in tatters but I took a deep breath and followed the instructions I had been given.

On the next machine, another guy was about to begin. He stared at me as I approached. He looked as if his ego had been annihilated too. His approach was slightly different from mine. Rather than accepting the fact that he was not a muscle-bound meathead and really should be working within his limits, he decided to repair his ego by showing that he could cope with the “ELEPHANT” setting.

He took a deep breath and, as I watched, lifted the enormous chunks of metal. His head, already red, turned crimson and then purple. His arms shook. His breath was ragged and he struggled to suppress a groan of agony as he pushed his body to the limit. Veins popped out all over his arms and neck.

He tried to look calm and composed, yet his face betrayed him. He only managed a couple of lifts and then dropped the weights with an almighty crash.

“Good workout!” he whispered as he got up. “It’s all yours.”

He watched as I took his place and adjusted the weight setting back to “WIMP” and followed my instructions. I smiled at him and I think my face said it all:

“You didn’t impress me, mate!”

I did manage to persevere for about three months before I began to get bored. I adjusted my workout in an attempt to relieve the tedium but to no avail. The physical effects were noticeable though. My upper body shape changed slightly and when I finally gave up, I had progressed and was comfortable on the “WEAKLING” setting. I could also run further and faster; I even managed to tame the cross trainer.

I would like to get fit again but the gym is not for me. I could try Mrs PM’s Tae-Bo challenge at home, which I have managed to do for a month or two before that bores me to death (after almost killing me). If you have never heard of  Tae-Bo, click here to see what I mean. Billy Blanks, the inventor of Tae-bo, is a master of martial arts and all round fitness guru.

Mrs PM bought a video about ten years ago and, after laughing, I decided to try it myself. Let me tell you, dear reader – it is bloody tough! If you can disregard the cries of “ALRIGHT!!!” and the typical American whooping and screaming, it really does work – until boredom sets in (as it inevitably does).

So my choices are:

(1) Humiliate myself at the gym whole burning loads of cash.
(2) Allow Billy Blanks, the Tae-Bo king, to bully me into shape for a month or two, until the weather gets warmer.
(3) Bite the bullet and revisit my cross country running youth by taking up jogging.
(4) Get on my bike and cycle to work.
(5) Do nothing and grow into a fat old git.

I have started in the right way by allowing myself to be terrorised by Billy Blanks this evening. I am currently half-dead as a result - it must be working.

Wish me luck.