ONLY three weeks away from my next marathon. I’ve run 20 miles each weekend, which is something of a problem. I’m now in a village called Little Didcott. The marathon is in Derbyshire. Ever practical, the wife has tried to find out if we’re insured should the unthinkable take place and I die en-route.
I’ve assured her nothing untoward will happen, but I’ll wear my best underpants just in case: paramedics have a difficult enough job without being confronted by lilac pants with chocolate waistband and gusset. As an aside, my mate Keith wore boxer shorts that played ‘The Birdie Song’ for his wedding night. His tearful bride said they ruined the romance of that one, magical moment. Not so much them, actually, more the fact he stood on the bed and did the movements at the same time. Six months later the pants played 143 times while he was being cut free from the wreckage of his car by fire fighters. He was OK, but 16 firemen were treated for trauma. I digress. Sadly, I’m not insured, but, due to an anomaly in our recent holiday cover, cash will be handed out if I’m knocked over by a stampeding camel, which is some comfort.
The last few weeks of training have been blighted by nipple burn, a painful running condition caused by my chest rubbing for long periods against my singlet. “I had that,” said Colin over a frothing pint at The Bell, “but mine was caused by the wife tweaking them during arguments.”
“How irritating did you find it?” I asked, pleased to discover a kindred sufferer.
“When she did it at the church garden fete, extremely. But after a heart-to-heart she did stop.”
Ostrich Did that make life at home any better? Colin thought for a while. “Not really – she started aiming for my groin.”
“Is nipple burn serious?” I asked our parish chemist Mr Patel. “If caused by a blowtorch, most definitely,” he replied.
“Could you give me anything to stop it happening?” “I can’t, but the shop over the road sells bras.” “I’m not running in a bra,” I protested, “I’d look ridiculous.” “Not if the pants matched,” insisted Mr Patel.
“Bernie Clifton runs the marathon strapped to an ostrich and he doesn’t complain,” huffed the chemist before walking off. The locals have become used to my pounding the country lanes in the build-up to the big race. Sometimes, in a scene reminiscent of ‘Rocky,’ the parish children chase after me: to date, they’ve only hit me with two potatoes.
During those long lonely training sessions, my mind drifts to forgotten situations and places, like the mock maths O level exam at Wellington Grammar School in the summer of 1973. I pinned my hopes on a new solar powered calculator, but it rained. I got two per cent and complained because you were supposed to get three percent for putting your name on top of the examination paper. The maths teacher pointed out I’d spelt my middle name incorrectly, which is hardly surprising. I seldom use it.
Never did understand maths. Mr Fletcher gave us log tables for homework. I knocked up a pine one, with matching ashtray. Back to the marathon. If Uncle Terry can run a marathon, so can I – and he was dressed as a bumble bee to highlight the wildlife trust’s concern over the decline of the garden insect. Uncle Terry left the trust at just the right time – they ran to highlight the plight of the white rhino the following year.
He hit ‘the wall’ after 15 miles: it was only four foot high and the eyeholes had shifted on his bumblebee suit.
Our Donna – a committed veggie – ran the half-marathon holding a big placard that declared, ‘Meat Is Murder.’
Unfortunately, she was hit by a hotdog van halfway round. Tell you one thing about this training lark –- I’ve now got the body of a 20-year-old. The 20-year-old rang yesterday and said he wanted it back because it was all creased. My wife's on curtain-twitching overload since the neighbours started building a conservatory.
Funny what gets her excited. When the postman was run over outside our house, she didn't even put her iron down.
The neighbours' extension, however, now gets better viewing figures at Chateau Lockley than Emmerdale.
I could not care less. They could install a nuclear bunker and I wouldn't stir from my armchair.
“It's very small,” she hissed, peering through the smallest gap in our net curtains. “I wouldn't have something like that,” she added, desperately trying to suppress the crashing waves of jealousy.
“I think what we've got is much better...a lot more natural.”
We have a collection of broken, moss encrusted slabs littered with dead mice, butchered and brought home by our cat.
It's certainly eco friendly – unless you're a mouse. “Oh, they're putting the windows in,” she near-shrieked. “I'm going to pretend to put the washing out and get a closer look.”
I told her she was being downright nosy. “Is that a conservatory you're having built?” she trilled from over the fence. “I thought so,” she cooed, before almost sprinting back indoors. The fact that it's white, has windows and is stuck on the back of the house is a bit of a giveaway. It's definitely not a bat box.
Last night Julie announced she, too, wanted a conservatory.
I accused her of a ‘trying to keep up with the Joneses’ mind-set. “You haven't even thought through the specifics, such as the design and size of the thing,” I protested.
“I know exactly how big I want it,” she snapped.
And how big is that?
“Twice as big as the one next door!” | 
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