Life with Arfur

An irreverent look at living with arthritis

May 7, 2017
by David Robinson


It’s five days now since the passing of our best friend, Joe, and although it will be some time yet before we get over him, life is adjusting here at Robinson Towers.

Joe’s presence is still very much a reality to us, and there’s a large gap with nothing to fill it. It’s most noticeable at those times when he was due for walkies, usually after meals, and when I come back from the supermarket. I can now come back into the house and theoretically lock the door. I have no need to go out again. And on the days when I don’t go to the supermarket, I have no real need to unlock the doors at all.

Life has to go on. I have work in progress, projects demanding my attention, deadlines to meet, and in case you’ve all forgotten, I have a new book launch on Wednesday. I’m sure that if he were still with us, Joe’s need for attention would be overridden by his need for food, which in the final analysis, was facilitated by my work.

Life With Arfur is launched on an unsuspecting public this coming Wednesday, and there’s still time to preorder your copy before the official release. The link is pasted in below.

Beyond that, we’re jetting off to Majorca a week on Tuesday, which means there are cases to be packed. My wife’s capacity for throwing three or four times the amount of clothing we need for warmer climes means that packing is a logistical exercise on the par with major war games, and it rarely goes to plan.

I’ve still not forgotten arriving at our hotel in Playa del Ingles, Gran Canaria a few years ago only to find that all my carefully arranged underwear was still in Manchester, 2000 miles behind us. I would have managed with the pair that I was wearing but the missus said no. Leaving them in place for a full week would have meant declaring an environmental disaster area.

And before anyone accuses me of typical, male laziness, I had offered to pack, but apparently you’re supposed to fold clothing neatly into the case, not just chuck it in and close the lid.


Life With Arfur, a tongue-in-cheek account of my early trials with osteoarthritis, is published by Crooked Cat Books on10th May, 2017, and available as an ebook and paperback.


Amazon UK

Amazon Worldwide


Amazon UK

Amazon Worldwide

There is a launch event taking place on Facebook from 0900 (BST) on Wednesday. Everyone is welcome. Just invite yourself and coma along on the day.


I hope you’re enjoying this blog. If so, why not subscribe to by clicking on the Networked Blogs icon in the Sidebar. That way, you’ll never miss a post.

As always, comments are open. Spammers, don’t waste your time, you’ll never get through.

You can also subscribe to my occasional newsletter by clicking HERE where you’ll also find a FREE E-BOOK waiting for you.

May 4, 2017
by David Robinson

Goodbye Old Friend

This is an extremely difficult post for me to write. Joe, our crazy, crackpot, lunatic Jack Russell terrier, passed away two days ago.

He was suffering from pulmonary edema. We have no idea what caused it, we have no idea why, despite the very best of treatment, he went downhill so rapidly. All we really know is, we went shopping about six weeks ago and as we left home that morning, Joe was fit and healthy. When we got home, three hours later, we found him cowering under the radiator by the front windows. A visit to the vet revealed the first signs of fluid on his lungs. He was prescribed the standard range of medicines; a diuretic to drain the fluid, a bronchodilator to open up his airways, and an antibiotic to combat any potential infection that might have crept in.

From that point on, Joe began to deteriorate, and the medicines had little effect. Four weeks ago, two weeks after the initial incident, the vet took him in for chest X rays. Joe had pneumonia when we first picked him up from the rescue centre, as a result of which his left lung had always been a bit tricky. The X rays showed that lung almost completely white, indicating that the amount of fluid was rising.

The medication was increased, but still it was to no effect, and Joe was getting weaker and weaker. Over the last two weeks we’ve had several crises, and emergency dashes to the vet. Over the bank holiday weekend his muscles were getting so little oxygen that he struggled to get from his bed to his food and water just a few yards away. On occasion, he would rally, and we would manage a short, slow walk, but we often had to carry him back.

This was a dog with boundless reserves of energy, an absolute nutter whole lived his life at ultra-high speed. In Joe’s view, all that mattered was walkies, food, play, chasing pigeons in the garden, and barking at other dogs, the postman, etc., all of which he did with absolute gusto; a tremendous joie de vivre, which helped keep us young, too. He was now reduced to staggering a few steps at a time before his muscles gave way and he had to sit down. He was so weak that in the last few days we were having to hand-feed him.

On Tuesday morning, he was due back at the vet’s for further X rays. My wife got in the car and I lifted him onto her knee, whereupon he collapsed into a dead faint. At the same time, he moved his bowels and urinated all over her. It took several minutes to get cleaned up, throughout which time, Joe was unconscious. During the 15-minute journey to the surgery, his head came up now and then to see where we were and what we were up to.

Once at the vet’s, his breathing was so shallow that they rushed him into an oxygen tent. We signed the consent forms for them to carry out investigations and we left him with them while we did a little shopping in town. Less than half an hour later, Patrick, the senior vet, rang me to ask about Joe’s quality of life. I knew what was coming. Frankly, I had been expecting it for two weeks. But my wife and I couldn’t allow our personal feelings to compromise Joe’s well-being. He was suffering, and it would have been cruel to allow that to continue. I told Patrick the truth, and with my wife’s agreement, when Patrick recommended euthanasia, I gave permission. Joe was still under anaesthetic, and he would simply never wake up.

We were at that heart-breaking moment all dog-lovers dread. The moment when you have to put aside your pain and consider your best friend’s suffering. It’s not the first time we’ve had to make this decision. Twenty years ago it was our geriatric Yorkshire terrier, Sweep, who was so old, he had only a matter of days to live, and like Joe, he was suffering. There are no words to describe the agony of taking that decision. I grumble an awful lot about my general levels of arthritic pain, but those aching joints are nothing at the side of the torture of ordering the death of a wonderful friend like Joe or Sweep.

We returned to the vet’s a couple of hours later, to settle the bills, and arrange for him to be cremated so that his casket can join those of our other dogs in a display cabinet at home. While we were there, Patrick showed us the latest set of X rays. They showed a huge deterioration in Joe’s condition. Both lungs were a mass of white, full of fluid. For some reason, the drugs had been unable to combat the underlying problem, and neither we nor the vet could identify that problem. There was simply no rhyme nor reason for this healthy dog to develop such a destructive disease and succumb to it in less than two months.

Six years ago our beloved Westie, Max, died of a massive heart attack after suffering from idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis, a disease which is prevalent amongst West Highland Whites. Max never knew what hit him, but we did, and the trauma of losing him was what prompted us to seek out a rescue dog. That dog was Joe.

The dogs’ home told us he was about three years old. Our vet begged to differ. According to their estimates and Joe was closer to five or six, which means he was between eleven and twelve years old now.

We knew nothing about his previous life. He had been found wandering the streets and he was not microchipped. But when we first met him I recognised straight away the makings of a good and faithful companion, a grand dog who would bring a lot of pleasure into our lives, and all he needed in return was love, a safe, secure home, a lot of patience and understanding in the early days, and someone to take care of his feeding, grooming and health. When dogs come into the Robinson household all those requirements are arbitrarily met, and so it was with Joe.

Letting him go is one of the hardest, most painful decisions we’ve ever had to make, but we freed him from his pain. I have a range of videos of Joe, most of them taken when he was fit and healthy. For the vet’s benefit, I also took videos over the last few weeks when he was becoming a really ill. I will archive the later videos. I prefer to remember the real Joe, that cheerful lunatic who gave us so much.

Putting this lengthy post together has been traumatic, but I’m hoping it will also be cathartic. My wife and I are in the deepest throes of grief and depression. We’ve said ‘no more dogs’. We’re too old to go through it all again. We’re flying off to Majorca in less than two weeks for a much-needed break. Already, Carol is talking about another pet; another dog, maybe a cat, perhaps a budgie. It’s tempting, but I’m insisting that we make no decisions until we get back from Majorca towards the end of the month.

In the meantime, our thoughts are centred on the little pal we’ve just lost.

RlP, Joe. We love you and we miss you.


April 30, 2017
by David Robinson

2017: A Nightmare

Let me apologise in advance. There is no humour in this post. It’s one of the hardest I’ve ever written.

They say 2016 was a bad year. So many celebs died last year. But for me 2017 is shaping up much worse, and everything began to go downhill on February 27th. That was the day I fell in the back garden and damaged my right ankle. But my pain and general health troubles are nothing at the side of the problems which have developed since.

Angela and her daughters, Hannah & VIctoria

First it was the news that my daughter has been struck down with Motor Neurone Disease. This terrible illness hit without warning, and all I can say is, Angela is battling with all the courage and tenacity of her father, if not more.

Soon after we got that news, we came home after a Saturday morning shopping expedition to find Joe, our lunatic Jack Russell cowering under the radiator by the front windows. We guessed he had fallen off the settee, landed on his back and hurt himself.

Joe when he was fit and well

Six weeks on, Joe is seriously ill. Hardly able to breathe, he’s suffering from non-cardiogenic pulmonary edema; fluid on the lungs, and we cannot understand where it’s come from. He is weak, and most of the time he looks as if he’s on the point of death. He’s had one set of X-rays, which reveal the extent of the problem, but not the underlying cause, as a result of which, we haven’t yet balanced his treatment.

It’s distressing to see this dog who, just a few short weeks ago was bounding around like a 2-year-old, barely able to walk fifty yards before he has to be carried back. We’re hand-feeding him because he doesn’t have the strength to bend his neck and eat, and he’s on more prescriptions than me.

In case you think we’re being cruel and ducking the real issue, let me correct you. We were at the vet’s this morning (Sunday) and I brought up the subject with Barbara. Are we looking at euthanasia? Regardless of the emotional pain it will cause us, I will not have this dog suffer one more minute than he has to.

But it’s a tough call. Aside from his breathing difficulties Joe is alert and responsive, and he’s the wonderful companion we’ve always known. Should we put him down if there is a chance of recovery?


He goes back to the vet on Tuesday for more investigations. If they cannot find an answer, then we May have to confront the awful reality.

But until then, he’s still part of this family.

April 23, 2017
by David Robinson

Could You Speak Up A Bit?

Arthritis is only one of my health problems. As well as diabetes and breathing problems, I’m also quite hard of hearing. Truth be told, I’m a crumbling old git.

(This, madam, is a weak attempt at raising a smile on your miserable clock. You don’t have to agree.)

The deafness is a consequence of many years working in noisy industrial environments, and listening to hard rock music at volume levels that could be considered painful. Almost as painful as the appalling lyrics on some of the tracks. I meanersay, Doo Wah Diddy-Diddy? What kind of tripe is that? And what price any man or woman ambling down the street singing such nonsense would be carted off to the nearest secure unit?

Still, we’re wandering off the point. I am mutt and jeff, and that’s an end of it.

Deafness is total pain in the arse. Watching television is a nightmare. I need subtitles, and the problem is some of our cheapskate digital channels don’t bother putting them on. And I’m not just talking about the real, cheapo, Mickey Mouse stations but some of the more important channels too. And it’s not only television. I find major DVDs, and we’re talking successful feature films here, and TV series which don’t have subtitles for the hard of hearing.

Having said that, some go to the opposite extreme. Harry Potter has subs in so many languages it takes me ten minutes to find English, and they don’t look that good in Serbo-Croat.

When it comes to TV series, Midsomer Murders is one of the biggest culprits. It’s also a particular favourite of mine and my wife’s. But I can’t buy the DVDs because I can’t hear a bloody word. And before you write to me and tell me that you can get Midsomer Murders with subtitles, I know you can, but you’ll find it’s only with the later series. The early ones didn’t have them.

So you’re next question is, why don’t you get some hearing aids. Beat you to it. I have some, as the picture above demonstrates, and although they are discreet almost to the point of invisibility, they’re also bloody irritating.

First, they create an irritating amount of earwax. Secondly, when I put them in, I go from hearing nothing at all to hearing everything.

We have a clock in the kitchen. Silly little thing it is. Been there years. The first time I put the lugplugs in, I heard this ticking sound and thought, “Hey up, the neighbours have really had enough now. They’ve sent us a bomb.” Five years that clock had been in the kitchen, and I didn’t know it ticked.

Although the inability to hear is an annoyance, there are some advantages to it. For example, when her indoors is nagging the pants off me to mend the front gate, I can remove my hearing aids and I don’t have to pretend that I haven’t heard her, for the simple reason that I really haven’t heard her.

Another advantage is that it cuts out all the twaddle from politicians, salespeople, and football commentators.

It also gives me scope for some great gags. For instance, I’m told there’s a General Erection in June. Is it compulsory? Only, if it is, I may need to stock up on Viagra.

When I’m in a shop and the assistant asks for £44.99, I can hand over a fiver and wait for a penny change. It doesn’t work. It’s never worked yet, but it’s fun trying it on.

Because I’m deaf I tend to raise my voice. God knows why. It’s not like I have trouble hearing myself. But it does give me the opportunity for some fun, especially in shops and supermarkets. I was born with a very high threshold of embarrassment. It takes an awful lot to make me go red in the face. As a consequence I have no problem in the supermarket when calling out in a very loud voice, “Where the hell is the Preparation H?”

And that can produce some serious cringing around me, especially when the missus is with me.

* * *

Life With Arfur, the ebook, has made its first foray into the Amazon UK charts. Currently available for pre-order, it stands at #41 in the humour, families and parenting chart, this morning.

To order your copy CLICK HERE. Your card will not be charged until the ebook is delivered to your Kindle on the day of release (May 10th).

You can also pre-order the paperback, and you’ll find the link to that on the Amazon ebook page. But although all that, too, is not released until the 10th of May, I’m not absolutely certain when the purchase would be charged to your card.

April 20, 2017
by David Robinson

Can You Repeat That Please

Here is a transcript of the video.

T’other day I was talking about my attempts to work with speech recognition, and its frequent comical interpretations of what it thinks it’s heard. When I say, ‘it’s choosing to behave itself this morning,’ why does it assume I’ve said, ‘A not quite used to Bernie be him itself this morning’?

Aside from anything else, I don’t know anyone called Bernie.

When arthritis begins to take hold you’re going to need all sorts of aids to let you lead a normal working life. Naturally the mere mention of that word ‘aids’ has the spammers jumping on board to offer you aids of a different kind: aids designed for rather less salubrious purposes. Before I know it, my inbox is full of offers on creams, gels and appliances, many of which, while claiming to be for the enhancement of dubious pleasurable activities, could have come straight from the Spanish Inquisition’s spring and summer catalogue.

However, I digress. So, dragging this article kicking and screaming back where it belongs, I’m a writer. What is it I need assistance with? Well, it’s working with the keyboard for hours and hours on end. It doesn’t half make your fingers ache, and speech recognition software, aside from easing that pain, allows me to roll a cigarette, flip through the TV channels, etc, while still composing my day’s work.

Bearing this in mind, even after the early problems, I decided to persevere with the software, at least for the time being.

A post like this would typically take about half an hour to write, and a further 30 minutes to spellcheck, edit, tidy up and upload to my blog. Speech recognition is very much slower than that and I needed some kind of procedure to speed up the process.

When I’m typing I don’t pause to make corrections. I simply carry on working until the piece is finished or until I reach a natural break where I have to consider which way the story is going, and then I make any necessary corrections. So would it make any difference if I employed the same principle when using speech recognition?

There was only one way to find out: try it.

As a consequence this post was prepared using speech recognition to the total exclusion of the keyboard, and I timed the entire process. I say exclusively but I did revert to the keyboard when the misinterpretations and attempted corrections mangled the prose so much that it became unintelligible and I couldn’t find a way to correct it with the microphone.

Control codes are the most problematic aspect of this system. It comes with a list of the verbal commands dedicated to controlling the text flow, but bloody machine doesn’t always interpret them correctly. As a result I’m constantly backtracking in an effort to correct the mistakes it makes, and more often than not, I simply compound them. Before you know it, I’m using the keyboard to put matters right.

It’s a bit like talking to the wife, the only difference being I can’t put her right using the keyboard.

Now there’s a notion to play with…

The article took about an hour to produce, but that time included faffing about, correcting the numerous misinterpretations. It still slightly slower than using the keyboard, but not so much that it’s noticeable.

My initial concentration was on speed, but is that what it’s all about? I have to keep an eye on the future, ensuring that if and when the time comes that I’ll no longer be able type with any accuracy or speed, speech recognition will be not merely preferable but essential, and for that reason I will persevere with it.

It’s a steep learning curve, but one thing I’ve already discovered is that if I modulate my parade-ground bark the software responds more accurately. The system is obviously more responsive to seduction rather than instruction, which once more reminds me of the missus.

And on a final note, the system is very sensitive. When Joe, our crazy Jack Russell terrier, is barking at the postman, the software arbitrarily assumes I’m saying it’s time for another cigarette.


And now the moment you’ve been gagging for.

Life With Arfur is now available for pre-order. All you have to do is go to the Amazon page and place your order. You card will not be charged until the book is automatically delivered to your Kindle on the day of release (May 10th) but you are guaranteed it at the pre-release price.

CLICK HERE to go to the book page on Amazon.


I hope you’re enjoying this blog. If so, why not subscribe to by clicking on the Networked Blogs icon in the Sidebar. That way, you’ll never miss a post.

As always, comments are open. Spammers, don’t waste your time, you’ll never get through.

You can also subscribe to my occasional newsletter by clicking HERE where you’ll also find a FREE EBOOK waiting for you.

April 17, 2017
by David Robinson

Talk To Me


Using speech recognition makes sense when you suffer from arthritis.  If nothing else it saves wear and tear on your wrists. This morning it’s behaving itself, but over the last few days I’ve had nothing but trouble with it.

To begin with it assumes my breathlessness, which is caused by COPD, is actually saying the word ‘are’.

Typing the words using the keyboard is a comparatively slow process, even at 35wpm, which gives you time to think about what you want to say. As a consequence when speaking into the microphone there are long pauses while you decide which way you’re going next. If this were a conversation between two people these pauses could be considered long and sulky silences, as if they were a divorcing couple in stalled negotiations.

Furthermore, the capacity for misunderstanding is huge. That sentence above, ‘typing the words using a keyboard…’ actually came out as:

‘Typing using the keyboard is a comparatively slow process even the lights died at 35wpm.’

Disjointed, and it makes you wonder what the lights dying had to do with anything.

It means I’m constantly having to go back and correct errors, which is time consuming. Even worse, it doesn’t always understand the corrections, which in turn means I have to resort to the keyboard to type in the correct words.

The speech recognition system also has inbuilt control commands which are supposed to facilitate production and editing, but which can be an absolute nightmare when the bloody software doesn’t understand my Yorkshire dialect.

As I get older and the arthritis takes a more virulent grip on my abilities, the advantages of this kind of system are obvious, but for the moment I have deadlines to meet and the software is simply too slow to match my requirements. This entire post, which runs to over 400 words, was produced using speech recognition and has taken about three quarters of an hour to write. I’m sure I could have typed it faster. But even when the initial post is written I still have to go back to manual editing using the keyboard. This is because I don’t fully understand the editing process using speech recognition, and even in those areas where I do, the software doesn’t always recognise what I’m trying to say.

And as a final example of its frustrations, I’ve just had a coughing fit which the software interpreted as:

The it had a of the border.

Enough said… or should that be enough typed?


I hope you’re enjoying this blog. If so, why not subscribe to by clicking on the Networked Blogs icon in the Sidebar. That way, you’ll never miss a post.

As always, comments are open. Spammers, don’t waste your time, you’ll never get through.

You can also subscribe to my occasional newsletter by clicking HERE where you’ll also find a FREE E-BOOK waiting for you.

April 14, 2017
by David Robinson

I Must Be Mad

I wrote every single one of the books in the image above, and but for one title (Fiagara Nights) they’re all published by Crooked Cat Books.

And this weekend every book in that image is FREE. From now until midnight(ish) on Monday, they’re yours for nowt.

It’s the Giant Crooked Cat Books Easter Sale.

So why are you still sat there reading this? Go get ’em while they’re hot and buckshee.

The Sanford 3rd Age Club Mysteries

The Filey Connection

The I-Spy Murders

A Halloween Homicide

A Murder for Christmas

Murder at the Murder Mystery Weekend

My Deadly Valentine

The Chocolate Egg Murders

The Summer Wedding Murder

Costa del Murder

Christmas Crackers

Death in Distribution

A Killing in the Family

A Theatrical Murder

Trial by Fire


The Haunting of Melmerby Manor

The Man in Black


The Handshaker

The Deep Secret


Midthorpe Mysteries

Fiagara Nights

Naturally, these are only my titles. You’ll find many, many more either free or at reduced prices in the Crooked Cat Easter sale.


April 7, 2017
by David Robinson

I Need A Stressbuster

It’s Friday and the end of one of the most stressful weeks I can ever recall.

It began on Monday with a visit to the doc’s concerning my damaged ankle and the problems it was causing my arthritic hip and knee. At the same time, my daughter was hospitalised for various tests. That was rapidly followed by the imminent publication of Life With Arfur and a flurry of last minute bits and pieces we need to get in place before May 10th.

But the major source of concern this week has been Joe. As you can see he has that Bart Simpson-ish look of angelic innocence which hides a crooked halo.

Joe’s not been his usual self for a while, and repeated visits to the vet failed to identify the cause. On Wednesday, he rushed upstairs to greet the missus and when he got there, he collapsed. By the time I got up there, he was peeing all over the carpet. Involuntary, I might add. He couldn’t help it, but you could see it simply added to his distress.

We rushed him to the vet’s and they checked him over, provided a range of prescription drugs and sent us home to fast him for tests on Thursday.

What came out of those X-rays was interesting.

First off, Joe is good deal older than we were led to believe. A rescue dog, he was found wandering the streets of Manchester and taken to a dogs’ home, where we adopted him. They told us he was about two years old and he was very good with other dogs.

He hates other dogs. They didn’t know because he couldn’t bark. He had pneumonia.

We got him through that, and gave him the kind of home all dogs deserve. Comfortable, caring, but encouraging good discipline.

According to our vet, it’s extremely difficult to tell an adult dog’s age, especially when his teeth are as crooked as Joe’s. If we believe the dogs’ home’s estimate, he would now be about seven. The vet reckons he is closer to eleven or twelve. And that explains so much about his health.

The X-rays revealed that he has a chronic disorder affecting his left lung. It’s not life-threatening, but it’s what makes him breathless. When he galloped up the stairs, he literally ran out of breath, which is why he collapsed. He’s on medication for the rest of his life and we’re treating him as geriatric dog.

So we know he’s slightly arthritic, just like me. He has high blood pressure for which he’s on the same prescription as me, albeit in lower doses. And now, he’s short on breath… just like me.

Only his Ventolin comes in pill form.

Still, collecting Joe from the vet’s on Thursday evening, now aware of what we’re dealing with, was the stressbuster I needed and I’m very much calmer today.


I hope you’re enjoying this blog. If so, why not subscribe by clicking on the Networked Blogs icon in the Sidebar. That way you’ll never miss a post.

As always, comments are open. Spammers, don’t waste your time, you’ll never get through.

You can also subscribe to my occasional newsletter by clicking HERE where you’ll also find a FREE E-BOOK waiting for you.


April 5, 2017
by David Robinson

A Date For Your Diary

This post should have appeared yesterday, but my daughter has been hospitalised with some kind of neurological problem and I spent the day batting about the web like a pinball. Latest news is she’s all right, and goes for an MRI scan today, and she has her partner and daughters to call on.

So, back to the main thrust.

May 10th. Make a note of it. That’s when Life With Arfur is launched on an unsuspecting world.

As well as being the first of Crooked Cat’s new non-fiction line, it’s a bit of a departure for me. I usually turn out fiction. The boss at the last place I worked recognised this when he said my timesheets owed more than a passing nod in the direction of Harry Potter.

This volume is autobiographical and contrary to possible expectations, it is not at all po-faced and serious, precisely because I am not po-faced or serious.

As well as detailing how and why Arfur got his hooks into me, there are sections on the kinds of advice I received from medical and non-medical people all over the world. It was all well-intentioned, I’m sure, but even I draw the line at dousing my joints with WD40. It might loosen the nuts on an engine block, but mine are all right where they are thanks.

On the day there will be a massive, virtual party on Facebook from nine in the morning until I get fed up. If I haven’t sent you an invite, don’t take it personally. Just invite yourself by…


But be advised. I’m a thoroughbred Yorkshireman. If you’re looking for free food and drink, you’d better bring your own. And just be grateful I’m not charging an admission fee.

See you on May 10th.


I hope you’re enjoying this blog. If so, why not subscribe by clicking on the Networked Blogs icon in the Sidebar. That way, you’ll never miss a post.

As always, comments are open. Spammers, don’t waste your time, you’ll never get through.

You can also subscribe to my occasional newsletter by clicking HERE where you’ll also find a FREE E-BOOK waiting for you.

April 2, 2017
by David Robinson

Fat? Me?

Busy recuperating from a short break on the Yorkshire coast, I hopped on the scales this morning… literally. The ankle is still playing up and all I can do is hop.

I’ve put about five pounds on over the last week. Honestly, you have one pint and that’s what it does to you.

I’ve never been politically correct, so I avoid softly-softly descriptions like ‘rotund’ or ‘portly’ or even ‘circumferentially challenged’. ‘Obese’ is too clinical for my liking, so I stick to the plain and simple.

I am fat.

And I’m fat because by and large, I’m bone idle, and I’m bone idle because I have a great excuse for being bone idle: I suffer from arthritis. I’ve also got a manky ankle. And I suffer COPD, which means I can’t get my breath like the rest of you so running marathons is out.

And basically, it is a lack of exercise. I don’t overeat. The missus is the glutton in our house. Between her and the dog it’s a question of who can move fastest when there’s a meat pie for the taking, and the dog doesn’t always win.

She’s also a diet junkie. She’s tried every diet under the bloody sun, and they work for a time. Then she piles it back on again and she has to try another diet to take it off again, and then she piles it back on…

I do try to exercise. You try carrying a 24-pack of John Smith’s bitter from the car into the house and you’ll see what I mean.

But to be fair to myself, I do make the effort, as the following video will demonstrate.

I feel much better after that. Now I’m gonna jog to the settee for a nap.


I hope you’re enjoying this blog. If so, why not subscribe to by clicking on the Networked Blogs icon in the Sidebar. That way, you’ll never miss a post.

You can also subscribe to my occasional newsletter by clicking HERE where you’ll also find a FREE E-BOOK waiting for you.