Please, take a minute to think what this means to me. Having so recently lost David Mitchell (who, for those of you who don't know, has thrown me over for the charms of Victoria Coren, leaving me devastated and the possessor of a nearly-new wedding dress and over four hundred ready-printed invitations, in which my name has been misspelled as 'June Loaftin'), I attended the start of the Duathlon as a spectator purely because it is such a lovely day. Oh, and because of the miserable pain I am currently enduring with all the fortitude of a small hen (I have managed to sustain a 'frozen shoulder' which consists of agony, followed by even more agony and the inability to lie, sit, stand or move without horrible morbid suffering on my part, because I am a complete wuss) I was up early. Very early.
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| In my wardrobe. Wet with my tears. Also some cat wee, but that will sponge out... |
Did everyone else know that the clocks went forward last night? Several of my clocks went so far forward that they actually fell off the shelf. So I woke up (having eventually fallen asleep filled with so many painkillers that my tonsils made a kind of knocking noise when I breathed in) at what should have been seven o clock. Which is fine and civilised and all that, particularly when (and I hate to go on about this, when I know that there is a whole Medical Encyclopaedia of horrible things that I could be suffering from, because I've read it and suffered from most of them, if only briefly) I'd only fallen asleep at about two in the morning. Only it wasn't seven o clock, was it? (A rhetorical question for those of you whose clocks remained intact and mysteriously lost an entire hour... where did it go, that's what I want to know. Someone's got it...) It was eight, and the Duathlon set off at ten.
So, to cut a long story briefs...er, I mean shorts...short, there I stood, whilst a number of men ran past me in very tight lycra. Very tight. Do I have to draw you a picture? All right...
And then they came back and did it all again, on bicycles.
I'm looking upon this as the Universe trying to make up for the David Disappointment. It succeeded. In the spirit of disclosure I have to mention that there were women there too, also running in lycra. Probably. Right. I have to go now and make some lunch. I think we might have sausage rolls, followed by a banana and some satsumas. Or maybe a pork kebab...
3 comments:
See - wurst things happen in Lycra. Glad you have distracted yourself from the pain of David chucking you for Victoria, but, sustaining a frozen shoulder to do it is extreme! A seriously horrid condition, poor, poor you. Hope you find something to manage the pain very soon.
Dear lovely Jane, that Dave is a fool, a fool, I tell you. I know it will be amazingly comforting to know that I still hold a roast chestnut for you, and I happen to look exceedingly good in Lycra. Luv 'n' nuts, Squizz xx
It's good to hear that the Men in Lycra have helped salve your broken heart after Dave cruelly abandoned you but Jane, comforting yourself with hearty sausage-centric meals is not the answer. I think you should commit Mitch & Cores to your next novel and move on... if you hurry, you should just about catch the Men in Lycra.
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