Oktober

[Sweder]

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. He’d say
‘Look, there, look at that sheep. It looks . . . black.’
The woman would laugh nervously and say ‘No Johnny, I think you’ll find it’s 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 Goodman’s 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 it’ll probably just be athlete’s 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. She’s 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 she’s 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.