How a night out with some owls made me miss my target.
Day 1. Tue 5th Oct 2025
“Who was that?” Jackie asked when I put the phone down.
“Dr McSorley, it’s just about my blood tests.” I was trying to play it cool, not sure if I was ready to have this conversation, but short of fainting on the spot, I couldn’t see a way out of it.
“Well?”
“Ok, it’s nothing really. He says I am on the verge of type 2 diabetes and probably need to go on pills.”
“Oh, that’s not so good but not surprising. Probably?”
“Well, there is another way without the meds. The important thing is to reduce my blood sugar level from 7.1 to something much lower”.
“Did Dr McSorley say how, without medication?”
“Change my lifestyle.”
Jackie’s reaction wasn’t exactly what I was expecting and, I must admit, I felt suckered into this moment. She guffawed and said “Well, good luck with that. Change your lifestyle. You may as well order the pills now.”
Instead, I decided to walk the dog and take stock. The truth is that this news hit me harder than I want to show. I’m at a funny age. Too old to rock and roll but too young to die and, well, maybe a bit overweight. 220 pounds isn’t heavy, is it? Not for a lofty 5-foot 11-inch male. Ok, 5-foot 10-inch if you insist on being pernickety. I’ve never been an athlete, never graced the field of dreams with my physical prowess, but I have been slimmer, fitter and better looking. Anyway, a man suits a little extra beef as he gets older. Those skinny guys always look ill. And miserable. It doesn’t feel like a big deal, I tell myself. Take the pills. Carry on. That’s what people do. If it’s okay for Homer Simpson, it’s okay for me.
But something is nagging me. Making me feel uncomfortable with the ‘do nothing and hope for the best’ plan. I’m told that Metformin is very effective — when it works. But, what if it doesn’t or if I have side effects? Maybe I’ll lose the rest of my hair or develop breasts. What then? Different drugs, more drugs, higher dosage? A bra fitting?
The good news is I have a target. I like targets. I’m motivated by targets. The doctor said that if I can reduce my blood sugar to 6.5 in 90 days, then he’d be happy to leave things as they are. Or else. Seems fair. Just for the record he didn’t say ‘for else’. That was just me. Dr McSorley is a nice guy who would never threaten his patients.
Returning home, Jackie is sitting at the kitchen bar making voodoo dolls. Just kidding, she’s reading a book. “Hi,” she says. “Have you had time to think?”
“Sure. I’m going to try the 90-day challenge. See how it goes. The way I figure it is that there are only so many donuts you can eat in one lifetime and I think I’ve exceeded my quota. What have I got to lose?”
“Well, some weight would be a good start, but, honestly, good for you, honey. I’m glad that you want to change things.” There is an awkward bit of silence until she says, “What’s the plan?”.
“Plan?”
“Yeah, you need a plan to achieve a target. Ideally one that achieves your goal.”
It’s annoying, my wife is way smarter than me. Always one step ahead. “I guess so. I’ll drink less coffee, cut out a few cookies, maybe do some exercise”.
“Good. It’s a great start. You’ll be smashing that target in no time”. Did I tell you my wife is not only smart but sarcastic?
“Well, I’ll also cut out potato chips and ice cream.”
“What about beer?” she asked.
“Beer?”
“Beer contains carbohydrates that convert into sugar. So do potatoes, pasta, bread, rice, and many other things you like”. I told you she was smart.
“That can’t be right, can it? Beer? Are you sure?”
Jackie nodded emphatically but sympathetically, the ways folks do when they are telling you something you must, but don’t want to hear.
“Ok”, I said keeping up the enthusiasm. “Let’s do what we need to do. I’ll cut out whatever I need to cut out”.
“By the 5th January?”
“Is that when the 90 days is up?”
“Sure is honey”
“Ok, I promise, by the 5th January it is”.
I’d take the dog out again, but he looks exhausted. I need peace and quiet. A quick visit to the local? No, that’s a very bad idea. The kitchen? No, too close to the fridge. My bedroom? Where I hide my munchies? Maybe not.
“Hey Brodie, wake up, we’re going out”. The dumb mutt jumps up, forgetting that he has just returned from his walk, licked himself dry and fallen asleep. I bet he was dreaming of chocolate biscuits.
Planning was an eye opener. I have far too many opportunities to stray from my chosen path. There’s next week’s football match. I can’t miss the semi-final. If we win, there is the final. There is Jerry’s birthday. Then the annual meeting of the Owl Collectors. Don’t ask. God, I just remembered our holiday week in Lanzarote is coming up, then Christmas, then New Year. So, over the next 12 weeks, ten of them involve beer drinking, lunch, hot dogs, fries, turkey, chipolatas, steak pie, crisps, cake and possibly whisky (if we win the cup).
I’m not sure my social calendar allows me the time to pursue a healthy diet. Deciding I need to get real, I look up what I can safely eat. Avocado, green leafy vegetables, beans and porridge. Sounds great. But look, I can eat eggs, cheese, butter, sausages, steak, chicken, pork and fish. So, it’s either diabetes or high cholesterol. The words frying pan and fire come to mind.
I sketch a plate on a piece of paper and put food types into categories: what I like mapped to what is either A) good for me B) okay in moderation or C) deadly. Guess where I land. I’m already on the verge of surrender. Maybe diabetes isn’t that bad.
More data gathering. Uh oh. I take that back. A bit of on-line research quickly changes my mind. Blindness, loss of limbs, damaged tissue, cardiovascular conditions, skin lesions, kidney failure and cancer. The whole enchilada. God, I can’t even have a metaphor that doesn’t spike my blood sugars. It seems that diabetes is a fast highway to hell. This is not a laughing matter.
I set goals. The most important is to achieve is Dr McSorley’s target. It is 6.5 but I can’t measure it unless I start taking blood from my finger or buy an expensive glucose monitor. He failed to mention what I’m measuring. Could be yards, fathoms or goblins for all I know. I remember my engineering days. If you can’t measure something directly then take leading or lagging measures. I’ll keep a notebook of what I eat, and I’ll measure my weight, and the distance around my belly. Daily. No missing days. No cheating.
Day 60. Fri 3rd Dec 2025
The first 60 days were easy. After a few weeks, I started to enjoy eating healthily, but I did have fantastical dreams about pizzas. Do you know how many pizza boxes piled high reach the height of the Burj Khalifa? I do. I saw it in a nightmare.
Much has been achieved. My taste buds returned. Tomatoes taste like tomatoes. Coffee smells wonderful. The crunch of a carrot is delightful. My brain is clear. And the irritating rash in my groin has disappeared. My wife is still smarter than me, but you can’t have everything.
With the wind of success behind me, I am determined that in the New Year I’ll be a new me. Slimmer, healthier, better looking and more fun to be with.
Day 65. Wed 8th Dec 2025
I’m out of control. It was the Owl Collectors annual gathering. Let me explain. Pete, Mike, Martin, Luke and Bruce are my friends. At some point in the past, (a date that none of us can remember) we all went out for lunch, got drunk, found a taxidermy shop in old Edinburgh and bought stuffed owls. It was a hell of a day. A real hoot. I still remember Jackie’s face when I staggered home with a huge eagle owl under my arm. At first, she screeched and when I said I didn’t mean to ruffle her feathers she pointed towards the spare bedroom. It wasn’t my wisest wise crack.
Despite the hangover, (even the owl looked the worse for wear) I agreed we’d meet again each year for more ‘owling’ as we liked to call it. Ever since we have, without fail, met for lunch, got drunk, bought stuffed owls and complimented each other on our purchases. Now we have all accumulated eight stuffed owls except for Luke who has seven. Ironically, he missed last year when he broke his leg in a motorbike crash, flew into a barn door.
This year I went owling with the best intentions, but things quickly got out of hand. In hindsight, the Jägermeister was a bad idea. So was the Sambuca. And the Lagavulin was especially stupid. At the end of the day, we had a parliament of owls but none of them seemed able to govern us.
One thing led to another. More alcohol, more laughs and, inevitably a late-night chicken madras with a naan bread the size of an elephant’s ear. From that day forth, my diet control was shambolic.
Day 90. Mon 5th Jan 2026
“Who was that?” Jackie asked, when I put my phone down.
“Dr McSorley, it’s just about my blood tests.” I was trying to play it cool, not sure if I was ready to have this conversation, but short of fainting on the spot, I couldn’t see a way out of it.
“Well?”
“The bad news is I didn’t quite hit the target. I was close, but not close enough.”
She nodded, already halfway to acceptance. “That’s alright. I’m sure the drugs will work. You tried your best.”
“I do have some good news.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”
“He’s given me another ninety days. No pills. He says the numbers are moving the right way and that I should keep doing whatever I’m doing.”
“That is good news.” She smiled. “See? I told you a plan helps.”
“I also told him about the owling.”
“The what?”
“The Owl Collectors.” I waited for the look. It arrived, askance and perfectly calibrated.
“And?”
“And he laughed. Properly laughed. Then he said something I wasn’t expecting.”
Jackie folded her arms. “Which was?”
“He said the problem isn’t that I slipped. It’s that for most of my life I never bothered getting back on again.”
She studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Makes sense.”
“Apparently, he’s also a bit of an owl man himself.” I added for no good reason.
“Of course he is.” said Jackie.
That night, I stood in the spare room, looking at our parliament of owls: glassy-eyed, disapproving, permanently ready to give wise counsel. I bit my lip. Happy to be where I was. Ninety days hadn’t fixed me. It hadn’t made me better looking or more fun to be with. But it had done something useful. I weighed myself, wrote the number down, and closed the notebook. Tomorrow would be Day 91. And for now, that would do.
Copyright 2026 Steve Gillies. All rights reserved.
Steve Gillies 
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