A few years back there was a comedy prog on TV in the UK called The Fast Show. Amongst many amusing and clever characters was Johnny, a man in his later years, who liked nothing better than to go out into the countryside with his wife (or was it his carer) to paint landscapes. Johnny would cluck and coo at the wonders of nature, until he came to paint something black. Hed say
Look, there, look at that sheep. It looks . . . black.
The woman would laugh nervously and say No Johnny, I think youll find its brown
Black! Black! BLACK! he'd cry, taking a huge dollop of black paint from his palate and smearing it across his painting. The sketch was oft repeated in slightly different circumstances, always with the same desperately gloomy results.
So, how was my run today?
Well, I felt a little off colour so despite turning up at the Hove Park café just before nine I bailed, electing to take the hounds on the long ridge plod to Ditchling. The weather was superb a cool breeze, high cloud backlit by a strong autumn sun, walkers and cyclists taking to the hills to enjoy the beauty of the day. I hailed a cyclist heading my way, his brightly coloured top shining in the sun, his shorts black . . .
Black. BLACK!
It was a crap run. All huff and puff, no rhythm, no spring in my legs. The term lead-footed was invented for me this morning. I dragged myself all the way to Ditchling and back, a round trip of about eleven miles, every last one of them wretched. Maybe it was the heavy meal last night with the girls away at Len Goodmans Dance Comp at Camber Jake and I cooked up a heaped plate of steak and mash or perhaps the last vestige of a hangover from the JSJ. Whatever the reason I was awful, my performance more limp and tepid even than Liverpool at Old Trafford last Sunday.
Home in an hour and thirty-five minutes, the time suggesting a different story to that relayed by my battered legs and aching body. I may take the rest of the week off to wait for the return of that itch everyone seems to be looking for. Though in my case itll probably just be athletes foot. Black. BLACK.
A little brighter news on the dancing front.
Phoebe goes to the Camber comp, a monstrously huge gathering of wannabe dancers and their Mums and Grans, every year. Shes never made a final in six years of trying, but despite that loves the occasion and competes in just about every category she can. Great joy was delivered via my mobile on Saturday when I heard shes not only made the final of the Freestyle Solo (after three heats and a semi) but placed third. Then last night, as I settled back in front of MotD, belly full of red meat and Hobgoblin Ale, another text. First in Latin. First! A pot the size of the FA Cup and a grin I could hear down the crackling line when I called back.
Maybe it was pride I was swollen with this morning.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Finally got around to booking that deep muscle massage I've been hearing about from my fellow downlanders. I rang Nikki - herself a keen runner, a recent finisher of the London to Brighton epic - and suggested I might see her before my scheduled Thursday plod. She laughed, then sighed.
'Not a good idea' she ventured. 'How's that hamstring?'
The memory of intruding fingers of hardened steel reared its ugly head. Nikki had treated my damaged hammies before Brighton, Reading and London last year. She'd worked wonders in no time, but I realised now that Thursday's session is likely to hurt me more than it hurts her.
It has to be done though. On my 'honey-do' list this weekend was, apart from clearing enough leaves to house the entire hedgehog population of South East England, the replacement of the bulbs in our 'festive' outdoor tree lights. As all good clipboard-weilding HSE officionados will tell you it's best to deploy the correct equipment when attempting to reach the slender upper branches of rain-slicked garden foliage. Alas, t'was a Sunday and my call to the council helpline went unanswered. So it was that I found myself some several feet above the end of the extended yet still inadequate ladder, perched precariously in the upper 'v' of the trunk of a medium-sized Silver Birch, packets of light-bulbs stuffed into the pockets of my baggiest shorts, when gravity joined forces with slippery fate and I lost my footing.
In that time-honoured Wyle E Coyote fashion I hung in mid-air for a nanosecond before starting the inevitable journey downwards. Instinctively I threw out my arms. If only I'd been that bloke from the Fantastic Four I might have made it. Sadly it was rather more Keith Richards than Reed Richards and only the most fortuitous wedging of my shoulders prevented a similar fate to that which befell the wizened rocker.
I can hardly claim to have escaped unscathed. I badly wrenched my neck and shoulder muscles, giving me plenty to moan about today as my long-suffering work colleagues will testify. The lovely Nicola - very possibly related to the Evil Rebecca - will have plenty to work on.
Still, the lights look nice.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Shuffled out for a sunny morning five to the Cap. Despite the bruised bits after my Sunday struggle and lumberjack capers I managed to lope along at a fair pace, coming home in bang on 45 minutes, a 'season's best' for the route.
So much for having a week off. I've decided on another 'step back' week though; Sunday's plod will be limited to between 8 and 10 miles - with another 5 set for Friday it'll be the last sub-20 mile week for a few months.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
In my defence the lights are a year-round fixture and are not of the implied variety. I usually fix 'em up when the clocks go back as the Mrs likes them on to help the little monsters find us on Halloween. It's no fun, coz then they can spot the elephant pit with the sharp spikes.
To be clear, I'm of the firm belief that any mention of the 'C' word before December should be punishable by banishment.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Don't start all that 'American holiday' nonsense now, MLCMan.
Its a common misconception - Halloween started in Europe centuries ago; it's when the spirits of the dead were supposed to walk the earth. People dressed up in disguise so as not be recognised by the dead*. Children of The Poor - have you met them? The Poor?** - used to beg for salt cakes and biscuits, hence the transmogrified sweet hunt we see today.
The armies of sprogs demanding sweets or else they'll pelt your car with eggs and dogshit? That's American. And yes, I did dress up in an SP mask and scare the wits out of the little darlings every time they interupted by spouseless enjoyment of Barcelona v Chelsea last night. In the end I cooked up some minced lamb (for the hounds) and left the steaming pot outside the front door with a note saying 'more children required to feed my dogs'.
The door-pounding mysteriously ground to a halt after that.
[SIZE="1"]* Un-researched but roughly correct
** Bonus points for the movie[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:Don't start all that 'American holiday' nonsense now, MLCMan.
Its a common misconception - Halloween started in Europe centuries ago; it's when the spirits of the dead were supposed to walk the earth. People dressed up in disguise so as not be recognised by the dead*. Children of The Poor - have you met them? The Poor?** - used to beg for salt cakes and biscuits, hence the transmogrified sweet hunt we see today.
The armies of sprogs demanding sweets or else they'll pelt your car with eggs and dogshit? That's American. And yes, I did dress up in an SP mask and scare the wits out of the little darlings every time they interupted by spouseless enjoyment of Barcelona v Chelsea last night. In the end I cooked up some minced lamb (for the hounds) and left the steaming pot outside the front door with a note saying 'more children required to feed my dogs'.
The door-pounding mysteriously ground to a halt after that.
[SIZE="1"]* Un-researched but roughly correct
** Bonus points for the movie[/SIZE]
