After a rocky couple of months locuming in London, I've landed a permanent job in Three Bridges, a thirty minute train ride from Clapham Junction. So, not unsurprisingly, I'll be moving to that area to minimise the morning commute. My experience of London's gay communities has been going according to plan, it has to be said. First I land a place on a direct tube line to Soho, and now I'm moving to South London, not far from Vauxhall. Yay!
The job I'm starting, in a month, looks like it'll be good experience and will pay well, though I'm anticipating a challenge to say the least of it, as I won't have a dispenser.
I've taken the password off this thing, as I've left Barts now and am not really conscious of what people will think.
In other news, I recently happened across the website of a personal trainer who operates near Liverpool Street, a chap called Nick Mitchell, whose website can be found here. I was impressed, as the sites of most personal trainers are poorly designed in general, and don't always back themselves up with established scientific evidence. This one was different. A solid website, with lots of reference to clinical journals, and with assertions that resonated quite substantially for me.
So, an appointment was made, and I got to meet the man himself. I was told I would be pushed beyond my limits, in spite of bleating and moaning, and would inspire questions from my friends along the lines of 'Fucking hell, Denis. What have you been doing?'. I was impressed.
Unfortunately, the price tag for the 12-week 'Muscle Up' package was similarly substantial, and as I'm in a bit of a financial hole at the moment, it's going to be a while before I can do it. But I will do it. After just a couple of comments from me about my lifestyle, he told me I was insulin resistant. I looked this up, and the list of symptoms described my problem down to a tee. I was sold.
Other that that, life goes on as usual. Had a few drinks last Saturday, brought a hot musclecub back to mine, and spent most of Sunday trying to shake off a hangover. Recently, I've been told by more that one person that whenever I'm out I always seem to be drunk. Lies, damned lies!
