RunningCommentary

Scales of injustice There’s this bloke who forgets his wedding anniversary. His spoilt wife is furious, and growls at him: "Tomorrow there’d better be something in the driveway for me that goes from zero to 200 in a matter of seconds." The next morning, she finds a small package in the driveway. She opens it and finds some brand new bathroom scales… Compared with her, I’m regarding my own bathroom scales quite favourably. As a glass half-full man, I prefer to focus on them showing me to be around 9 pounds less laden than I was at the start of last week, rather than on the fact that I’m still somewhat… over-substantial. According to HM Ministry of Fat People, … …

Crying out loud Another step forward. Four miles on a mild and bright evening, with the run element of the run:walk ratio back over 50%. The aim is to keep it creeping up, but I won’t let it reach 100% before I’m a stone lighter than I was at the start of this week. The good news, as predicted, is that the pounds are sliding off. The gains so easily made over the last few weeks and months are just as easily removed — to begin with, at least. I’ve become something of a running wuss in recent years. It was only two years ago that a jacket became standard issue on cold winter mornings. For the four years or … …

Notes from the ledge I woke this morning feeling troubled and empty, but didn’t know why. It was something beyond normal Monday fatigue, and the distant nausea that’s part of the aftermath of football weekends. Yes, I ate an Everest of mashed potato last night — a self-referential monument to my inability to judge food portions (as I would have it), or to my greed (as M would prefer). But that wasn’t it. I concede I’d ‘gone for a walk’ in the early evening, and returned with three agreeable pints of West Berkshire Brewery’s Good Old Boy seeping through my intestines. Shortly to be joined by a couple of generous measures of Tesco’s finest riserva Chianti, while I tearfully chopped … …

Tyra-knee-saurus Rex Yesterday, for the first time in nearly 40 years, I went to see the dinosaurs at the Natural History Museum. I wanted to look upon these mighty works and despair, just as I had done as a kid. But I fancy the Tyrannosaurus Rex has shrunk a little since I was 10. Back then it was an unimaginably frightful behemoth. Yesterday I was surprised and disappointed to find that something in the intervening years had drained the shock and fear from the experience. By the time I left the museum it was harshly wintry and dark, with the temperature dropping to freezing. I walked past the outdoor ice rink that’s become a regular Christmas feature of the … …

All the leaves are brown, and the sky is grey It’s a while since I thumped the marathon tub. Let’s do it now. Taking the baton from the desperate lunge of the previous entry, I did manage to see the doc — eventually. He rang in sick first time round — a self-referential conundrum of the type I enjoy — but I persisted, despite the dial on the knee throbostat clicking back a few notches by the time I got there. He prodded the unco-operative joint, and peered at it like it was an exotic marsupial twitching in a cage. The eventual verdict was that ‘wear and tear’ is the culprit. In other words, I’m getting old and this is … …

Joint Statement. The problem is not having nothing to write about, but having far too much. So many majestic horses having bolted, why bother to contain the few that are left behind? Which reminds me. Did I dream it, or did I once hear some speaker somewhere say: “It’s no good bolting the stable door after the horse has…. er, itself bolted…” Maybe I’ve blocked out the metadata in sympathy. It’s been a rare old few weeks. For the first time since I began the long plod to freedom, six years ago, I’m confronting the possibility that the end is in sight at last. Trouble is, it isn’t the end I’d hoped for. Seriously, I’m wondering if the game is … …

I wrote this on the forum a couple of weeks ago: After my great week last week, I’ve had a setback. Went for an excellent Sunday morning lope with the club in some glorious (and previously unknown to me) woods about 4 miles from home. The circuit was around 3 miles, and we were free to run 1, 2 or 3 laps depending on how we felt. I decided on 2 as a step up from last week’s raft of 4 x 3.5 milers. Lovely setting. Nice tracks through dense, dappled woodland marking the borders of Berkshire and Oxfordshire. Not hilly but the odd undulation to give it some interest. Around the 5 mile mark, I felt an unexpected sharp … …

With M on an awayday in Birmingham, I grasped the opportunity for a rare visit to the cinema. The alternative — continuing to work on the new pond — didn’t appeal quite so much. Last time I did this, I pleasantly surprised myself with George Clooney, and the brilliant Good Night, and Good Luck, which he wrote, directed, and starred in. Clooney featured again today, in the title role of Michael Clayton. A decent enough thriller with (of course) a smart twist to leave me giggling at the end. It’s one of those films where you have to keep concentrating to ensure you keep on top of the plot. Clooney plays a Mister Fixit type with a law firm, detailed … …

I was lying in bed this morning, later than usual, listening to the 5 Live sports programme hosted by Gary Richardson. There’s something admirable about the way this grinning rotweiller elicits information from the unsuspecting. His line-up today included the insufferable GIles Clarke, who’s just been elected chairman of the England and Wales Cricket Board. This ghastly fellow used to be one of my bosses when I worked in the wine business. He tried to get me sacked once for “fomenting rebellion on the shop floor”, after I’d organised a round robin letter, complaining about having our usual Christmas break reduced. I could tell a few tales about this man, but of course I’m far too ethical for that. While … …