Saturday morning / And who's gonna play with me / Six in the morning / I got a long, long day ahead of me

One thing about last year I miss: My Saturday morning routine. I was up just before 8am, and out the door by 8:45 at the latest to run the four miles to my favourite Pilates class, which started at 9:30. I'd do the class, head over to a meeting, then usually run another 2.5 to three miles of the way back to BN2's. (I might have run all of it, but usually I had to pick up groceries.)

I'd do it even if we'd been up half the night fighting (which happened scarily often). My Saturday morning routine was the only real escape I had all week, I fought hard for it (and frequently had to defend it), and I loved it – not to mention the huge feeling of accomplishment I had by lunchtime.

In December, when my sister was trying to get me to see how bad my relationship with BN2 was for me, I told her I feared not just being alone, but being out of my routines.

"You made that routine and you'll make another one," she said.

Well, so far I haven't. My Friday nights are a whole lot less predictable, the run from my flat to Pilates would be about seven miles (slightly too long a run for the class to feel like anything but punishment), and my Saturday afternoons/evenings are also a whole lot less predictable (translation: I can't just stay a sweaty mess, so I'd have to start toting clothes and toiletries around, which makes the run that much less appealing.)

Last night friends cancelled the World Cup barbecue they were hosting because they were both sick. I didn't want to go to wine bingo (I've given up drinking for 30 days) or sit around a club in Soho with the NJB and his friends so I stayed home and scrubbed my kitchen sink and cleaned my bathroom. Yes, really. The glamorous life, isn't it?

This morning – despite not going to bed until after midnight – I woke up at 6:30 am and couldn't go back to sleep. I got up at 7, made some porridge (first in at least a week – I've been eating my US-import cold cereal, which is not at all filling but is delicious), and then ran a good six of the seven-plus miles between my flat and my meeting. I popped into Partridge's – aka the poshest, most outrageously overpriced corner shop in London – hunting for some good chocolate for a snack. (Green & Black's dark just isn't doing it these days.) They had none (hello, Partridge's, what's with the Thorntons? For American readers, Thorntons is at least as bad as, say, the Whitman Sampler) but they did have some diet A&W cream soda. My second favourite soda in the world after Dr. Browns diet cream. Score! I decided to use the tube fare I'd saved running to treated myself to a couple of cans – oh, ok, and also some Bear Naked granola nibbles. (For the record, no, I haven't had so much as a single sip of diet Coke since Jan. 12, but since my last US jaunt I've had the occasional diet soda.)

After the meeting I hung around chatting for a good 45 minutes, enjoying the feeling of knowing I didn't have to drag myself to the gym for a workout. (My usual running route has to be done at off-peak hours – because of both car and foot traffic – and a World Cup Saturday afternoon most definitely does not qualify.)

One week binge-free. I've got at least four trips in the next month, including a British Army gig where the food will be horrendous and the opportunities for exercise nonexistent. One foot in front of the other...