There's nothing like a slight change of routine to send we Aspergic types into fits of discord. I like to think I've transcended that stage, and begun to relish perturbations to my schedule. Take this morning. My bike was at the shop being repaired, in itself no more than a minor inconvenience. I also overslept by about 45 minutes. This combination, as the project manager in me would say, negatively impacted the cost/benefit profile of the "gym before work" proposition. As I was contemplating my options, a lens fell out of my glasses, and was nearly taken away as a plaything by the cat, at which point the old me would have decided the gods were toying with me, and sulked theatrically.
However, the new, go with the flow, surf life's ups and downs, turn a problem into an opportunity me took a look out of the window, saw it wasn't actually raining, and went for a run along the Union Canal towpath instead. It felt wonderful. I managed a steady pace, remembering to myself that the outdoor work is to acclimatise my joints, not break speed records, enjoyed the autumn sunrise reflecting in the canal, and revelled in the view from the viaduct as I headed west towards Wester Hailes. I listened to my next two chronological episodes of Doctor Who, The Web of Fear 6, and Fury From The Deep 1, and returned home in time to shower change and breakfast before going out. An experience like that sets you up for whatever the day can throw at you.
I noticed at the weekend that The Web of Fear contains characters called Arnold and Lane, which indicates that there was more than one type of London Underground preoccupying the writers in 1968.
I went to the Doctor's on the way to work, and was relieved to hear his view that my upset stomach is probably due to too much high-fibre cereal. Whatever next? Eyestrain from reading The Guardian? Stubbed toes from wearing sandals? I'm quite relieved that his suspicion matches mine, specifically because it legitimises my new desire to eat porridge for breakfast whenever I can.
My Mum made us porridge for breakfast when I was little, and round our way it was served with whole milk (to cool it down) and Tate and Lyle's golden syrup (to give us diabetes). My grown up version is made with skimmed milk, and in an effort to keep my glucose levels down, not much else. At the weekend, I made a serendipitous discovery. I had more natural yoghurt in the fridge than I knew what to do with, so I dolloped some on my porridge and topped it with a little honey. Nectar! The sweet and sour contrast turned this utilitarian slop into the food of the gods. I shall continue to experiment, with stewed apple, sliced fruit, and anything else that isn't too fibrous. The only question remaining is whether I can exercise on a stomach full of it, as I suspect that the gym would be less tolerant of my somehow heating porridge on the premises (How, anyway? A discreet camping stove?) than they have been of my inoffensive tupperware box of muesli. I will therefore have to digest this unexpected feast before leaving the house.