January 2009

[Sweder]

I think we'd all be delighted if he were to beat you at Almeria, and would think none the less of you if he did. But is this something that is likely to happen? He's been rather quiet about his training - are you hinting there may be something of a dark horse in the event?

It's all a bit Sergio Leone; strategically placed sunshine, mysterious shadows, cigar smoke, haunting harmonica phrases and dust-blown tumbleweed. I can't make out his face as he chases me down. I'm running in treacle, going nowhere. The line's right there, almost within touching distance, but his silent, hot breath is on my neck. Every night he gets closer and closer, the blasted line just as far off as before. I wake up in a cold sweat, bolt upright, sheets soaked, shaking like a leaf.

Who is he?
Why's he gunning for me?
How the hell does he keep that cigar on the go and run without throwing up?
It's like Basil Copper's The Janissaries of Emilion; I only hope the outcome is less bloody.

Maybe it's Ladyrunner after all (I didn't know she smoked cigars). Who knows? I'll be glad when it's all over and I'm either scythed down in the last ten metres, the tax inspector taps me on the shoulder and says breathlessly 'you're served!', Ladyrunner flies past cackling wildly or, I suppose the obvious answer, the runner pulls alongside, the sunlight hits his face and - shock horror! - he is me. Psychology was never my strong suit but I'm sure it all means something.

It's been like that for over a week now. Frankly it's exhausting (not to mention tedious and expensive) in terms of washing & spin-drying the bedsheets every morning