sicko

I own two pairs of running shorts. Actually, I own three but if it ever got to the stage I had to wear number three, I’d probably prefer to give it a miss.

Pair number 1 are somewhere around 2.5 years old and they’re my favourite. They’re black, New Balance and perfectly moulded to the unique and individual shape of my buttocks. However, they’re getting a bit scruffy. Well, so would you be if you’d spent 5,000kms wrapped around my bum.

Pair number 2 are also black, but they’re newer, made by Brooks and have the key pocket on the left rather than the right. They’re not really my favourite. I’ll wear them, but only when the New Balance ones are in the wash.

Today on my way back from the tan, wearing the Brooks shorts, my MP3 player decided to jump out of the little key pocket and go for a wander. Not my idea. If the MP3 player had have consulted me I would have advised against it, pointing out the only things nearby were probably a bit smelly and definitely unattractive.

Anyway, there are some things over which I have no control; though, in retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have run down Exhibition street at lunchtime clutching my groin.

You can get arrested for that sort of thing.

Running
I didn’t manage to run yesterday lunchtime, owing to a meeting that simply had to happen. I did run last night, despite struggling with extreme slothfulness. I ran again this lunchtime, including a couple of loops of the tan.

God I’m getting sick of that place.