The Mountain Way

Well, it's been a month since I wrote anything and absolutely nothing of interest has happened to me. Perhaps the only development is that I am now a health and fitness guru. I am not sure how this has come about, but I've been slaving away at the gym, day in, day out, in order to perfect my physique. Needless to say, I don't look any different.

I blame Men's Health magazine, which costs £3.60 and is exactly the same every month. The headlines are always something along the lines of GET ROCK HARD ABS FAST or FILL YOUR T-SHIRT WITH ABS or GET YOUR ABS OUT IN BED AND MAKE HER SCREAM. Frankly any scenario involving me being in bed with a girl with my abs on display would result in my screaming, not hers. Well, I say abs, my abdominal region where my abs would be if you could see them through the acres of wobbling lard.

Not only are these magazines the same every time, but the article regarding the amazing fat loss from abs plan is never actually in the magazine. It's just pages and pages of advertisements for protein powder, disgusting low-fat recipes and advertisements for Davidoff featuring Ewan McGregor in a slightly effeminate scarf on a wind-swept mountain.

The problem with trying to be a health guru is that everyone tells you something different. Currently, I am being told not to eat any carbs in the afternoon, but always to eat some carbs immediately after cardiovascular exercise to afford burning muscle tissue rather than fat. So, what happens if I exercise in the afternoon? Carbs or no carbs? This, combined with the fact that Norwegians have dinner at four o'clock in the afternoon means that I have had four meals today already and it's only seven o'clock. I mean I'm trying to trim up, not emulate the physique of Eamonn Holmes and layer myself in undulating mounds of whale blubber. You know he's sneaky-fat. I've met him in person. He doesn't look that big on TV but my god he's a whopper in the flesh. You may wonder why I've met Eamonn Holmes, but you wouldn't believe me if I told you.

Things were going well in the gym today, until I came over a little queer, emotionally. The thing is, I always find myself getting involved with songs in the most inappropriate of situations, my mind wanders and I forget where I am (which can be dangerous on a Stairmaster). There I was, on the treadmill, when Lollipop came on by Mika and found myself reflecting, philosophically, on the lyrics. 'I went walking with my Mama one day, when she warned me what people say, live your life until love is found, or love's gonna get you down'. The thing is, that is what my mother used to say, and often it was when we went walking. To clarify, my mother does not say gonna. Nor is she dead, which I now realise that speaking about her in the past tense suggests. 'Robert,' she used to say, 'don't get married until you're thirty. Don't make the same mistakes that I did' (ie you). It's funny how we remember such pearls of wisdom from our parents. I still find myself repeating them now, and often I find myself bitterly reflecting on the fact that I followed their advice when it wasn't always terribly sound. Oh well, we live and learn. Oh, also to clarify, when I say walking we're not talking about cagoules and mountains. We're talking about a little promenade along St. Asaph Road and back down Coventry Close in the summer, around dusk, when everyone has their lights on but has not yet closed the curtains, so we can nose in people's windows and criticise everyone's wallpaper (it was the nineties, everyone had wallpaper).

Well, talking of decor, I am no longer homeless, or at least I won't be as of Saturday when I move in to my new flat. Woohoo! It's on a road called Fjellveien which means The Mountain Way in Norwegian. How poetic is that? It is, actually, halfway up a mountain. I'm hoping the daily walk to and from it is going to give me buns of steel. I'll show Men's Health. I show her my buns and make her scream.

Well, how to decorate? Clearly, when one is in rented accommodation, one is in a predicament. One doesn't want to spend too much and yet one wants it to be nice. I have been told that my taste in interior design is Kelly Hoppen Uber Luxe, but sadly I don't have a Kelly Hoppen budget (although I do have some Kelly Hoppen room spray). So, how to strike the balance? (Laura, if you're reading, I have already discussed some of this with you, but it's always good to get a range of opinions). Due to the presence of various items of furniture in the flat already, there are only really three rooms in issue.

Guest Bedroom.

I had thought of nautical for the guest bedroom, as Bergen is a port and one can see the sea from The Mountain Way. However, I don't actually have anything nautical, and it's best to work with one has got. Also, if one is going with such a specific theme, one has to do it properly, and a ship's wheel from a charity shop on the bookcase just isn't going to cut it. Frankly, all one would need would be tin of Rover biscuits and it could end up being redolent of a council house from the 1970s. Kirstie did nautical on Kirstie's Home-Made Home and I don't think she pulled it off at all well. I mean, there's New England beach house and then there's a half-arse attempt with blue and white Ikea bedding and a manky bit of driftwood and I just don't think it's practicable. So, given these considerations, and the fact that one can see trees from the guest bedroom, I think I'm going to go with woodland hideaway. This has two particular boons. Firstly, my spare bedding is a suitable shade of forest green, and secondly one can employ any old bit of tat one picks up on a woodland walk without slipping in to council territory. We all know a bowl of pine cones and a liberal spray of Kelly Hoppen room scent speaks volumes and is virtually free.

Main Bedroom

I had thought of sumptuous Rococo splendour but once again Mr. Budget stepped in my way. I think the only way forward is airy Scandinavian tranquility. Perhaps some sort of patterned white bedding and a sheepskin rug over the exposed floorboards. Floaty calico curtains. It can't fail.

Balcony

Well, once again, I'm going to wrestle with the age-old rustic/urban conundrum. It comes up every time I even think of balcony decor. Which way to go? Weathered Kath Kidston prints and tarnished yet sturdy pieces, or some sort of pebbles/babbling water/striking palm plants with architectural fronds splaying across the crisp dewy morning like eternal shards of turquoise crystal? I would say that the character of the apartment would be suited more to the former.

Time will tell. I am rather looking forward to going to IKEA (for some fabric essentials, I'm so over flat-pack. It seems more authentic, going to IKEA in Scandinavia. Although having meatballs and lingonberry jam in the cafeteria will be something of a Busman's Holiday, I can tell you.

It's six months to the day since they whipped my brain tumour out. Hasn't time flown? Isn't it remarkable to think that I've done almost nothing in that time? Alright, I've moved to a a new country, but I've been a complete dosser since I've been here and was a complete dosser before. This is all set to change. It doesn't seem so long ago, emotionally, so I am engaging myself in various projects hoping to move on, grow, be a better person and learn from the experience. It is amazing the thoughts that go through one's head at times. It really doesn't matter where one is the world, one's feelings always follow. Wouldn't it be good if we could put them in to storage somewhere? Perhaps I'll call up Big Yellow and see if they have any facilities for emotional baggage (appalling joke, sorry). I've been watching Lance Armstrong in the Tour de France. I knew that he was a cancer survivor but what I didn't know was that he'd had tumours in his testicle, lung, abdomen and two in his brain. I feel rather out-done. Anyway, he went on to win the Tour de France and is completely recovered, having been given a 40 per cent chance of survival. Seeing this as an opportunity to grow/learn I have ordered his book It's Not About the Bike: My Journey Back to Life which I am hoping will lead me too some sort of emotional awakening. And there I was, thinking he was some All-American Homeboy Big-Jawed Bleach Tooth Ivy League Jock Celebrity Girlfriend Toss-Pot.

Perhaps once I've read it I'll get a celebrity girlfriend. It can't be that difficult. I mean, I think I'm a bit over the whole gay thing anyway. It all seems rather old hat these days, doesn't it? Maybe even a bit nineties. Who would I have though, that's the question? The obvious choices (Beyonce, J-Lo, Jessica Alba) are all taken. I'm not fussy. All she needs is (a) fabulous wealth (b) no crack habit and (c) no lady's bits. I'll see if RuPaul is available.