I can’t take my eye of the ball this year – not for a second. I’m juggling so many projects that I'll need to start compartmentalising my days so that I can dedicate enough time to all of them. I simutaneously need to remember to continue pitching projects for later in the year and find the time to start the process of getting funding together to record the Requiem. I feel another Blue Peter-style totaliser coming on; A Requiometer... But we’re going to need to collect a very large number of milk bottle tops to get this one flashing. £20,000 of milk bottle tops, to be precise. I emailed the record company who are interested in releasing the piece today to get some useful figures from them; how much money we should expect to make from every unit sold, and how many copies we’d need to shift before going into profit. It's all bewildering. I’m bewildered.I celebrated my bewilderment by battling through a hellish storm to visit the gym this afternoon. I ran for 6km and then cycled for 6km, and now my legs feel like pieces of plastercine. I caught sight of myself in the mirror in the changing room and mistook myself for a flump. Just call me Pootle until you begin to see the effects of the diet I started today.
On that note, I'm very much looking forward to watching The Biggest Loser on ITV tonight. There's nothing better than watching a group of fatties hauling themselves around a football pitch before bursting into tears to make you want to lose weight. I very much enjoyed the show last year. It will, no doubt, remind me of being in Newcastle this time last year. It was an incredibly happy and relaxed period of my life. I’d rush back to my Travelodge room to watch the show whilst eating an apple, an orange and a malteesers bunny.
Anyway, with no structure to today’s blog, I think it’s time for me to bow out gracefully before anyone reading falls asleep. I am sad to read today of the whale who met his end on the beach at Hunstanton. Frankly, there are better places to die...
Friday 3rd January 1662, and Pepys went to William Faithorne’s studio to buy some of his pictures. They were obviously quite expensive, because he spent the rest of the day panicking about his accounts – and the sheer amount of money that he was allowing to drip, like water, through his usually thrifty fingers.