On the running front I am back at it and knocking out modest weeks of 30 – 40 miles a week for the past few weeks. My good knee is now my bad knee and it is ‘visit the physio’ sore for the first two miles of most runs and then it’s fine. I’m listening to it more than I would have previously but I am still, by normal person standards, running myself into an injury.
Don’t forget, you heard it here first.
Now, the meat and two veg of this blog:
On New Year’s Day 1997 I was catching the bus from Paris to London with my ol’doll (future wife) and at a motorway stop somewhere in Kent I picked up a copy of the English Independent (we have our own version in Ireland, hence the clarification).
I still have that copy of the paper and I kept it because of the daily poem on page 5.
A Puppy Called Puberty/A Dog Called Elderly
It was like keeping a puppy in your underpants
A secret puppy you weren’t allowed to show to anyone
Not even your best friend or worst enemy
You wanted to pat him stroke him cuddle him
All the time but you weren’t supposed to touch him
He only slept for five minutes at a time
Then he’d suddenly perk up his head
In the middle of school medical inspection
And always on bus rides
So you had to climb down from the upper deck
All bent double to smuggle the puppy off the bus
Without the buxom conductress spotting
Your wicked and ticketless stowaway.
Jumping up, wet-nosed, eagerly wagging –
He only stopped being a nuisance
When you were alone together
Pretending to be doing your homework
But really gazing at each other
Through hot and hazy daydreams
Of those beautiful schoolgirls on the bus
With kittens bouncing in their sweaters.
And now I have a dog called Elderly
And all he ever wants to do
Is now and then be let out for a piss
But spend the rest of his lifetime
Sleeping on my lap in front of the fire.
Like telling only some friends about your porn stash, only some people will smile at that poem and totally agree with it. Them’s the fellas you want watching your back when the lead is flyin’.