My mouth tastes of ash, my brain is cheese fondue – I think there may even be a hippopotamus thrashing about in my stomach. Ah yes. Nothing quite beats the feeling a few quiet drinks with friends on a sunny Saturday night.
I woke up with two thoughts in my head. The first was that I need a cold juice, a bacon sandwich and, most importantly, headache pills; the second was that I knew instantly I had none of these things in the house. I had actually been about to leave home yesterday to go shopping when I got the call from a friend asking me to meet him in the pub for a quick drink. ‘Come on’, he said, ‘Just a quick one – they got a big screen up in the garden to show the Olympics. It’ll be fun’. He was right – it was fun. Nothing brings people together more than raucously cheering on sportsmen and women as you slowly get progressively more, erm, ‘ tipsy’. I think I admire sportspeople more after a couple of drinks, as if the further away I get from their state of physical perfection, poise and power, the better I can understand them. I empathise with the commitment, the long hours of training, the sacrifice. I know exactly what they are going through.
At least it feels that way at the time. This morning, having dragged myself to the lounge, I can barely lift my eyes to look at the marathon runners on TV, in case we make eye contact. I would die of shame. Those driven individuals have just begun a gruelling 26 mile, 2 hour slog, where they will battle with their fellow runners, the elements, with their own self-determination, cheered on by hundreds of thousands of admiring fans. I have a mug of lukewarm tap water balanced on my belly, and my pyjama bottoms on inside out – even my cat is disgusted with me. This is not good. Not good at all.
To rectify the situation, I’ve promised myself that this afternoon I will go for a jog. It will be interesting to see how far I can get, as it has been sometime since I last ran, and my route will take me past the pub. If you’d don’t hear back from me within the week, raise the alarm. Or at least call The Queens Head to check that I haven’t fallen asleep in the bushes.