January 2009

[Sweder]

I am a Philistine, an Unbeliever. A self-confessed Luddite I fear change, and I’m right to do so, dear reader, for change is bad. What’s brought this on? I hear you mutter as you reach for the back button on your browser. Well I’ll tell ya; George effin Clooney, that’s what. To be more precise the latest techno-gizmo, gotta-have, keeping-up-with-the-Clooneys caffeine-bean processor he’s adhered his much-adored, salt ‘n’ pepper mug to. Frustration, thy name is the Krups Nespresso XN4050 Concept Auto.

I figure myself to be of medium intelligence. Not Einstein, not Eddie the Eagle Edwards, but somewhere in with the myriad of bustling souls getting about their daily business as best they can. So when, at some un-Godly hour, in a small kitchen dominated by the looming presence of a heavily hung-over, piss-taking Seafront Plodder, I find that I’m lacking the degree in advanced astro physics required to make a simple flaming cup of coffee, I get a little tetchy. It doesn’t help that the big man’s shoulders are shaking like the edge of Vesuvius as he watches me thrash like a frog in a blender trying to make a beverage. Mrs S was persuaded to purchase this latest shiny kitchen accessory by Number One Son. I of course saw through his cunning rouse, albeit too late. He ‘s well aware of our collective inability to embrace new gadgets and has Machiavellian designs on moving said contraption into his lair - once we’ve torn what’s left of our hair out trying to make the blasted thing work. Judged on my performance this morning it would take slightly less time to kill and prepared a full roast dinner than to make coffee for six guests. I like kettles, me. And instant coffee. Yeah, I know – Philistine – does what it says on the tin. I’m not ashamed, I just want a cup of bloody coffee without the bullshit.

All this followed what you may now have surmised to have been an excursion with my re-hydration guru and his caped companion, Captain Tom. A ‘few’ Guinness followed by a raid on my red wine stocks that finished a tad shy of three am. Mrs S, woken, like the Kraken, to our sheer and utter horror, railing against the noisy swine bouncing off the dining room furniture as they tried to feed SPs bizarre musical mores. Captain Tom took stock and took steps – great big ones towards the door. The sight of my beloved, eyes blazing and out for blood, was enough. He scampered into the night with a cheery wave, following howls of derision trailing into the frosted night.

Now, in the hard, cold, and oh-so early light, the temperature a lusty minus eight, here I stood, dressed for the BHTT 5K, wondering what on Earth I’d been thinking. Again. The run turned out OK – 23:43, respectable and – ahem - my best this year. SP declined my generous offer to join in, citing the fact that my shoes were more akin to canoes than footwear. I had nothing for his dainty plates so he took off for the train, destination duvet. At the park Stevio shivered, a well-wrapped (and clearly not running) Le Soft declared calf-knack and Simon, duly sniffling and equally buried under several layers, declared lurghie. There was no sign of Ladyrunner, no doubt charging her batteries for the later XC race, but no fewer than sixty souls lined up, including a handful of newbies. What were they thinking? I gave it a good go, starting slowly, as much out of respect for the slippery track as for my dulled senses and embarrassingly wobbly belly. Most pleasing was a strong finish and a lack of knee-whinge, as welcome as the run itself.

Minus eight – it really is a cracking start to the year, winter-wise. I can only hope for more of the same tomorrow as we return to the valley of the White Worm and more hillside capers with the Jog Shop crew.