I should be in the hairdresser's now. I would be if my hairdresser's wife hadn't gone into labour. I mean, seriously, like she couldn't have waited until the weekend?
So, instead, I'm going in later on to be cut by Andrew. Andrew is rather more avant garde in his styling. I may return with shaved bits.
(A pigeon is trying to work out how he can reach the fat balls without falling off his perch. It's all we get on our front garden bird-feeder: fat pigeons. 'Don't let the pigeon eat the peanuts!' A phrase recognisable by parents of small children.)
So I've been wearing my Fitbit non-stop since yesterday afternoon (apart from when I was in the shower). It begins counting again each day at midnight; so far today I have taken 1,374 steps. It's 30 from bed to the toilet - I know because I counted - so it must add up quite quickly. Slightly worryingly though is the fact that it thinks I slept for 16 undisturbed hours last night. Oh and the fact that when I woke up it already registered 11 steps. I know i wriggle a lot in bed but I'm surprised it's enough to count as a step.
I'm hoping that the Fitbit - I know, let's call her Phoebe - will magically make me lose weight without me having to do anything. Now the woman who invents that machine will be onto a winner.
And don't worry; I'll soon lose my enthusiasm for reporting every detail from Phoebe. She's already making my wrist feel itchy ...