Monday, April 26, 2004
Tuesday March 16th, this site:
- let the record show that I am preparing for a run, sort of for me, mainly for my Dad. It’s for charity, and it’s kind of a family issue. May I also point out that like a child without his P.E. kit, I had to cobble together an outfit of woolly jumper, hat, shorts (non-sport), trainers (sport! bought in a moment of worthiness) and a pair of black socks with "Ian" written on them.
Guess what? It was yesterday. A month or so ago I remember saying to people that I really hoped I didn’t do no training at all, turn up, and stagger round the course coughing up tar as it would be so tediously predictable...
- I’ve started smoking again a few times recently.
- The run was six miles. The longest preparatory run I’d been on was, well, twenty three minutes. However far that is. I pretended to everyone I’d done half hours. This was a face-saving device. What I actually meant was, “the next one will be half an hour. I’m not really lying, I’m telling the truth outside of the constraint of time.”
- I didn’t get any kit in the end. I had to borrow some sports socks from my Dad. (“Hey! No way! I seem to have forgotten my socks...”) Unfortunately my plan to wear my Slade top was scuppered by the free t-shirts they gave out at the start.
- I contrived to not get to Dad’s until 1am on Saturday night. Time up on Sunday morning? 7 am. Ideal preparation.
So far so you knew it was going to happen. However, recently my life-as-sitcom seems to be recasting me away from wayward, incorribible eldest son, and check this – it was fine. Stayed with my Dad the whole way, and if anything, he held me back. (He’d been training several times a week and at any rate has been going to the gym for years. I know he’s got, like, twenty seven years on me, but still...) Came in at just under an hour and didn’t walk at all. Then we had a picnic. Dad, me, Dad’s girlfriend, her children, my Grandpa and Dad’s girlfriend’s mum. The latter two were shamelessly flirting. Twenty first century families, eh? Bloody hell. Obviously I’d forgotten my deodorant so had to steal some from my pseudo step-brother. Went back on the train smelling of Fourteen Year Old Boy, or “Lynx”, as I believe it’s known.
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- let the record show that I am preparing for a run, sort of for me, mainly for my Dad. It’s for charity, and it’s kind of a family issue. May I also point out that like a child without his P.E. kit, I had to cobble together an outfit of woolly jumper, hat, shorts (non-sport), trainers (sport! bought in a moment of worthiness) and a pair of black socks with "Ian" written on them.
Guess what? It was yesterday. A month or so ago I remember saying to people that I really hoped I didn’t do no training at all, turn up, and stagger round the course coughing up tar as it would be so tediously predictable...
- I’ve started smoking again a few times recently.
- The run was six miles. The longest preparatory run I’d been on was, well, twenty three minutes. However far that is. I pretended to everyone I’d done half hours. This was a face-saving device. What I actually meant was, “the next one will be half an hour. I’m not really lying, I’m telling the truth outside of the constraint of time.”
- I didn’t get any kit in the end. I had to borrow some sports socks from my Dad. (“Hey! No way! I seem to have forgotten my socks...”) Unfortunately my plan to wear my Slade top was scuppered by the free t-shirts they gave out at the start.
- I contrived to not get to Dad’s until 1am on Saturday night. Time up on Sunday morning? 7 am. Ideal preparation.
So far so you knew it was going to happen. However, recently my life-as-sitcom seems to be recasting me away from wayward, incorribible eldest son, and check this – it was fine. Stayed with my Dad the whole way, and if anything, he held me back. (He’d been training several times a week and at any rate has been going to the gym for years. I know he’s got, like, twenty seven years on me, but still...) Came in at just under an hour and didn’t walk at all. Then we had a picnic. Dad, me, Dad’s girlfriend, her children, my Grandpa and Dad’s girlfriend’s mum. The latter two were shamelessly flirting. Twenty first century families, eh? Bloody hell. Obviously I’d forgotten my deodorant so had to steal some from my pseudo step-brother. Went back on the train smelling of Fourteen Year Old Boy, or “Lynx”, as I believe it’s known.
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