Day 3: The big sleep and the lingering threat of death

First off, an apology.

I did mean to write up a summary of yesterday towards the end of the evening, but I failed miserably to stay awake.

By ‘failed miserably to stay awake’, I mean I fell asleep fully clothed at 7.30 reading an article about the best ways to cook meat. Now that statement raises so many questions in my own mind as to the effects this challenge might be having on me that I’m going to ignore it and pretend it never happened.

As a consequence I missed dinner entirely, so my consumption breakdown for yesterday is as follows:

50g porridge oats – 4p

1Tbsp Value strawberry jam – 5p

(fun fact: strawberries are the second most abundant ingredient in Value strawberry jam)

4 slices bread – 8p

1/6th jar peanut butter – 10p

Thin, THIN sliver of cake at work (yeah, sorry) – We’ll go with 20p. This sliver was THIN I tell you.

Total – 47p

And that’s with completely overvalued cake. So I figure I now have up to 82p in the blowout bank for the rest of the week, which I may or may not resort to based on desperation.

So, onto today.

Today I felt great. I’ve been perky all day, had a couple of apples for breakfast, generally been full of vim and vigour and even managed to pull a 10.5 hour day without too much pain. My ever supportive work buddies have been regaling me with tales of trips to Nando’s or posing me helpful questions like “So, lasagna. Discuss.”

God bless ’em.

Lunch was my now traditional peanut butter sandwich, as evidenced below:

One day I’ll learn how to rotate images properly. And then I’ll be unstoppable.

The only thing that has changed about lunch over 3 days is the size of the plate, which makes me quite sad.

But strangely at the moment nothing is making me sad. I’ve had a pretty long work day, I consumed about 7 of my requisite 2500 calories yesterday, I’ve apparently started reading about meat cookery on the internet, which is just way too far, but I’m chipper as can be.

I must be dying.

I imagine it’s like in the films, where the protagonist thinks she’s sipping Mojito’s on a cruise liner in 1962 but is actually locked in a tiny basement flat in Slough, hours from the inevitable.

For all I know today has been a wonderful yet surprisingly mundane dream. I’m probably not even typing this right now. Oh well.

In acknowledgement of the fact that I’m dying/already dead, I’ll do my thankyous early tonight because I’ll probably be in the morgue by about 10 when I’d usually write a summary.


And bloody hell there are a lot of them. Huge, heartfelt thanks to everybody who’s put in so far. I’m up to £95, which is a bit surreal. So thanks go to, in no particular order, Sue Hall, Keighley Bowen, Victoria Nollwr (also known as Victoria Nollet), Yachty Totty (aka James Goates unless I’m much mistaken), Hannah Gibbons, Neil Wright, Harry Mackenzie and Harriet Pattie. Here’s a little something you might not know about these people, and which largely aren’t true (jesus, how am I going to make up this many facts?!):

Hannah Gibbons – Owns the mightiest swan this side of Lancashire. It’s name is Thor. Also speaks fluent Swahili.

Harriet Pattie – Is terrible, TERRIBLE at Tesco-based jokes. Once travelled from Land’s End to John o’Groats on the back of a Burmese Mountain Dog.

Harry Mackenzie – Is the tallest man in Berkshire, and has been known to make sweet, sweet love to chestnut trees

Neil Wright – Discovered opium in 1978 and hasn’t been seen since. Paints with melons.

Victoria Nollet – In her culture it is forbidden to write your last name without replacing the last letters with W and R. Teaches martial arts to squirrels.

Sue Hall ( – No made up facts for Sue, just check out her blog and see what she has stretched her £1 a day to. Officially superwoman.

James Goates (aka Yacthy Totty) – Sails the high seas plundering copper wiring to slake the thirst of his hungry Norwegian master. Could probably Live Below the Line and eat steak every day because he’s a jammy git.

We have a late entry! Whilst writing this I must also thank Jan Burton, aka mum, for her donation. And if you think I’m falling into the trap of making attempted witticisms about my own mother right now, you’re mistaken.

I’ll do it later.

Anyway, tea time. Rice again, might crack out the kidney beans for a real treat.