Pump Action

I’ve been jogging today. I know. I know. What a dick. It wasn’t even my idea but I said I would do it as Layla finally got her new bike the other day and she wanted me to come with her to the park to give it a whirl. Of course you can’t just walk alongside a bike so I threw my jogging bottoms on and went along. Why I even own jogging bottoms is a complete mystery to me. I’ve worn them before, yes, but I don’t think jogging of any sort has ever occurred while they’ve been in my possession. Actually that’s a lie. Perhaps once or twice, sitting on the sofa, whilst wearing them, it has jogged my memory that I want more ice-cream, or I have accidentally jogged the controller so its fallen off the sofa arm and I have to wheeze in order to bend down and pick it up. But no actual exercise based jogging. It wasn’t all that bad in the end. The rain wasn’t ideal but by being annoyed with the rain I managed to forget how annoyed I was with my legs and general poor state of health and eventually we were home and I wasn’t dead. Once again, I beat death. Except it appears to have crept back up and killed my legs a few hours after and I am confined to my chair by the computer as if I try and move I’ll clearly fall over. My knees, or as I’ve recently decided to refer to them, my Liam Kneesons, have seized up, and my thighs feel like a large man has repeatedly slapped them with very cold hands. Don’t ask me how I know what that feels like.

Its good though, as after yesterday’s hospital visit, it turns out that once again, what I need, is some exercise and healthy living. Since Christmas I have planned to do this, but much like the best laid plans of mice and men, I havent done any of them, much in the same way you don’t see mice on a treadmill or men eating cheese. Ok you do see the latter. I’m not really sure why I said the ‘best laid plans of mice or men’. I couldn’t think of any other types of plans. Surely men’s ‘plans’ are not ‘best laid’ ones but the ‘best ways to get laid’. I think they left those words out to help the mice. Anyway, apart from the ‘you should stop being fat’ talk, my hospital visit was quite exciting as I tried using a diabetic pump. Well not all of it, but the bit that really worried me.

I’ve been told time and time again by various fellow diabeticals that the insulin pump is six shades of awesome, but I haven’t been able to get over the fact that a little machine is attached to you at all times. People have said it doesn’t hurt or you don’t notice it, but that’s also what they say when my dentist cracks a tooth out and my face hurts for days. So I can’t trust those sorts of lies. Yesterday, however, I braved trying it. They used a little device and stuck a tiny needle thing in my stomach and attached it with a sticky thing and I didn’t feel it whatsoever. Well, at least not until they tried to pull the sticky thing off all the muppet hair on my belly and it felt like my soul was being torn off. Such is the problem of being a tiny hairy hobbit man. So now I’m going through all the processes to hopefully get a super cool bluetooth things that will send signals all over me and sort out diabetes things. I reckon I feel all confident about it now and its only a matter of time before I get bionic legs and eyes and can do a Steve Austin and look at people and go ‘waa waa waa waa’. Thats the noise of my eye, not the noise I would make. That’d be lame. I can’t imagine the NHS do bionic eyes yet, but I’m sure they will soon. Turns out my its just my dentist I shouldn’t trust.