My Legs Are Not My Own

Wake up with a feeling, that is becoming a worryingly common occurrence, that my legs are not my own. I think whoever's left calf it is, has been twisted and whoever's right thigh it is has been strained. I decide a hobble to the bus may do me good.

Things go quite well until I come to get off the bus. I’d had my legs crossed and couldn’t uncross them, then after I had done so, I found it difficult walking again.

Once at work, I type my rough time in to my results spreadsheet, which tells me my time wasn’t that bad after all. Better than Wollaton but slower than Rushcliffe, so no need to slit my wrists, at least not just yet.

I get a concerned email from L and when I don't see it because I'm in a meeting, a concerned text follows it. She's checking that I've made it as far as work and am not still crawling towards Pride Park or perhaps just lying collapsed in a heap somewhere. I confirm that I am indeed, still alive, just.

My squash opponent and part-time motivational coach asks how my 'jog' went and tells of how he battled through his 3k in a time of 17:41. That sounds a bit pedestrian to me, particularly as I'm sure the weather was better on his treadmill than it was in Colwick Park and I tell him so. I think that upset him, he’s sulking now.

L's been out spotting new recruits for my hit-list. She saw a young chap running down the road wearing, what she suspected was, a tri event shirt. He had in tow a totally inadequately dressed female, in all in pink and white. L helped them break into the park by shimmying through the school fence, which was accompanied by the squeals of "ooooh how exciting" from the girl. Seems she may not have ran before because she didn't get very far. Obviously a first date. Young love eh?

That girl best watch her step, before she knows it he’ll have her doing bloody triathlons. It’s a slippery slope. Trust me, I know.

L says I'll be marking her card this time next year. Never mind her, I'm worried about him, he could be doing Erewash. Sounds like I might need to keep my eye on him. Sunday's event is on, despite all the rain we've had. There might just be more swimming involved that simply 16 lengths of the pool.

Derby sign another player. Claude Davis from Sheffield United. £3M. He plays for Jamaica, so presumably he's British.

At long last Son's monitor has arrived.

Get home and we have L's sausage and beans speciality before we go out. We also attack the carrot cake. L can't believe that she let it slip through her fingers last night and she only had two halves, practically AF. I nearly started on it myself but thought it impolite to pig out on it without her help.

Daughter is at a school variety show, so we do the good parent thing and agree to walk her home. This means we have the hardship of waiting for her in the Rodney which is just down the road. I have a pint of Directors and a pint of Landlord. Unlike the other week, the Landlord is better. We also share a bottle of Chilean Merlot, which is decidedly rough at the edges.