I was really pleased with myself yesterday. I managed a quantity of porridge in the morning, a mug of coffee later on, a sandwich for lunch and some soup and mini-sandwiches in the evening. That's akin to a day's proper eating. I thought I'd turned the corner.
I'd done a handbrake turn on the corner and gone crashing into a lamp-post.
It all happens at 3.30am in this particular condition. At around that hour I noticed that I'd had virtually no sleep and was in stalemate with myself - no posture in bed was comfortable. So I didn't feel all that optimistic any more.
What do you call a man who, months ahead of the date, organises 12 tickets for everyone to go and see a live comedy show - Eddie Izzard - and then on the day itself, cannot go?
I think you call him a self-pitying idiot, suffering a self-inflicted condition that's probably some divine message of warning about being so self-absorbed.
I'm feeling less optimistic today.