Never thought I’d see the day when I’d find myself on a bus crowded with strangers, spontaneously crying “Banana! Banana!” followed, a minute later by “Strawberry! Strawberry!” then “Tomato!” and “Lime! Lime!” and “Apple!”
That day finally arrived today. More later.
Let’s deal with running first. On Wednesday I visited the local sports injury clinic to be prodded and interrogated by a physio called Alison. The upshot is that this injury probably isn’t as bad as I first feared. I might even be back running next week.
It’s occurred to me recently that I keep going on about the Dublin marathon, but I have some important running dates before then. I’ve entered, and been accepted for, the Bristol Half Marathon on September 7th, the Great North Run (another half marathon, in Newcastle) two weeks after that, and the Great South Run, a 10-miler in Portsmouth, on October 12th. I should be focussing on these events, and letting the marathon training take care of itself.
I had thought I’d do the Burnham Beeches Half in August, but that’s only five weeks away — possibly not enough time if I’m going to have to ease gently back into it after this current setback.
After the visit to the physio, I returned home, packed a couple of bags and drove down to Cornwall. We decided a couple of weeks ago that a break was overdue, so here we are, having that very break. The injury fits in quite nicely, it has to be said. I’ve been on a beer, pasty and ice cream diet for a couple of days now, and we’re shortly off to the Rick Stein restaurant in Padstow for a belated birthday meal. The proper one. So this is yet another final pig-out before serious training sets in.
Or is it? My self discipline is shot to pieces at the moment.
Yesterday we took in a couple of National Trust houses. We renew our membership every year but don’t get round too many of the properties, so when we go away like this we try to catch up a bit. Yesterday we sauntered round Cotehele and Lanhydrock. It was good to see so many Americans groaning ecstatically over the Tudor weaponry and the four-poster beds and the servants’ cubbyholes. Seems a much better way of understanding British history than traipsing round Whitehall and St Pauls.
Ever wondered what became of Willie Thorne, the professional snooker player who never quite managed to win anything? No, nor had I. But I called into a shop yesterday to buy some white ‘trainer liner’ socks, and found that for 89 pence I could become the owner of three pairs of Willie Thorne socks. Yes, that’s him, grinning from the packaging. I read something recently about celebrity endorsement products, and learnt that Lloyd Grossman – the chap who drags his mid-Atlantic vowels through a variety of bodily orifices prior to delivery – has earned £50 million pounds from those pasta sauces that I’ve seen in Sainsbury’s, but that I’ve never seen anyone buy.
I doubt if Willie Thorne socks are providing the eponymous endorser with anything like that. Each pair worked out at about 29 pence. That’s 14.5 pence a sock. Take off the retailer’s margin and you’re probably left with 10p a sock. How much does it cost to manufacture and deliver a sock in its packaging? Don’t know, but whatever’s left over out of that 10 pence belongs to Willie Thorne.
This must be the cue to relate my other almost-famous snooker player anecdote. It concerns Tony Meo and two cases of Champagne.
Hmm. Another time perhaps…
