At this moment my eyes open and I am lying on my back.
I try to move my left arm but it is not there. Neither is my right arm. My legs too are prickly. There is no feeling.
These painkillers are so incredibly strong. I make a note-to-self to pack them for work.
I'm at West Hampstead tube station and the sun is out. There is a light breeze blowing and Sade is singing "coast to coast LA to Chigaco, Western Maine. Across the North and south to Key Largo..."
I pull out the bottle of water I carry with me at all times and drop another two Panadol Extra.
Necking painkillers at 10am. All I need is the cheap aftershave and poor taste in men and I'm Elizabeth Taylor.
At Bond Street Tube station and look...
It's that guy from the TV and radio who reviews movies and is, famously, a friend of Leonardo Di Caprio.
Yes it's weird. I know I shouldn't take other peoples' pictures without them knowing. But who knows...
Maybe we were traveling together?! Maybe I'm actually Leonardo Di Caprio.
Oh that's really really upsetting.
Did you know that they've cancelled Soho Pride this year? Seriously - that's like one of the highlights of the year.
I read about it on their website.
I bet you 2010 Soho Pride will be rained off too. Bets?
Ping! It's painkillers time. I take two.
I see this picture and am reassured that it is within reach. Not him, the look.
What will happen when I achieve it?
Of course it won't be good enough. Of course I will look in the mirror and see a great big fatty.
Because I am on pretty strong antibiotics I'm having to replenish all the bollocks in my stomach. For this task I am eating M&S Pro-biotic yoghurt.
These pots contain the most amount of carbs I have had in a week.
I have managed to ruin my digestive system to such an extent with Chris's bodybuilding diet that even the slightest hint of carbs and my whole system goes into some weird over-balance where I feel bloated and sick.
Do I care? Do I fuck... I am so close to having the stomach I've wanted for ages that nothing can stop it now.
There's still a large layer of horrible fat around the bottom two and they're not as ripped yet.
Do I care that you may not be impressed? Nah. My insecurities flew out of the window a long time ago.
Well, some of them did.
Lynda is leaving our team so we have gathered to drinking champagne and eat chocolate cake. I stand in the corner and nibble on my AnimalPak and drink water.
We all agree that having a wisdom tooth infected is pretty hideously painful.
95.8% of the time is not spent talking about me.
And we're standing outside Rupert Street in the warm evening with Nix, Nick and Harry.
I am spaced out on painkillers and antibiotics but it's great to be out in Soho on a beautiful Friday evening. I rate the general level of talent at around 6.8 out of ten.
I am standing at the bar trying to order some drinks but the barmen are all so slow and my mind is wandering.
I realise that in one week's time, exactly, I will be standing at another bar. This one at Beluga in Cape Town celebrating my 31st birthday.
(And cue memory lane...)
The reason I'm having it at Beluga is simply for old time's sake. Back in the day 2001 / 2002 a group of us would gather at Beluga every single Friday evening.
We'd be absolutely shit-faced by 8pm. It was common for the bar tab to run upwards of R10,000. And because we were so lucrative for them, they'd never kick us out.
Next Friday is a rematch. It will be pretty emotional after at least 8 years.
And back to Rupert Street in Soho.
I'm at the gym where Chris, who's duty manager for the evening, has set aside 30 minutes so we can play Destroy Bob's Biceps.
And that's what we do.
Leaving the gym and I am winked at by a Rolls-Royce Drophead Coupe.
I love you too, you thing of beauty.
At home I am listening to Robin Beck singing her one-hit wonder "First Time".
A thousand and one emotions whirl around but I don't know what they are and why they do so.
Maybe it's just because it's a melodramatic 80s-style ballad.
Is there someone out there who can sweep me off my feet please? Like, where the fuck are you already?