I don’t believe there are bad habits. An adult should be able to differentiate between what’s good and what’s bad for them, and then make an informed choice on how to behave.
For example, I know smoking can kill me. I know it’s unhealthy and stupid and expensive. People see me smoking, and tell me all this, as if I’m an idiot who does things without thinking. Do you really think I haven’t considered the costs and effects of smoking? Of course I have.
I choose to smoke; you choose to be a judgemental bitch who can’t mind his own business. What’s the difference, we’re both adults right?
Anyway, that was off into the dark forest as usual. Let’s get back on the path to logic.
There is some shit we do, or did, and have done, for many years, which just isn’t practical anymore. One of these is the Saturday breakfast.
See, I have been having breakfast in the same place on Saturday morning for more than ten years. The vagaries of Super (and international) rugby scheduling have conspired to make key broadcasts begin at breakfast time, and this has merged with my general schedule.
Now, there’s nothing wrong with having breakfast at the Scud, per se. It’s something we do, the mouse and I. It’s normal. The only problem (for me anyway) is leaving. I tend to have a whisky with breakfast (who doesn’t?) and carry on all through the day, so much so that by disco time I’m shattered.
It usually doesn’t help that I’ll be (more often than not) carrying a massive Friday barbie. It is stupid, unhealthy and expensive.
So, being a fucking adult, it’s time to chop and change. No more Saturday breakfasts at the Scud, except for the really big games (and with the Rugby Championships starting soon …).
I’ll have to find something else to do with myself, now that I’ll have all that time and energy to burn. Oh, I know.
Nothing. At. All.