On dicing with death, again

On dicing with death, again

The Scaryduck Fun Run of Certain Doom: IT IS DONE.

I did what I set out to do: Complete my Sunday morning jog round the mean, mean streets of Dorchester, whilst refraining from hurling my guts into nearby hedgerows.

Others weren't so lucky. The Run was swarming with kids running on behalf of their junior football teams, all of whom set off at a sprint, before collapsing with exhaustion 400 yards down the road, necking their entire Lucozade supply in one gulp.

"It was like an orange-coloured fountain," said my daughter, who despite having custody of the camera, failed to capture this moment for posterity.

I, on the other hand, had other fish to fry. I had eyed up the field, and had already decided who I would race in my own, private competition.

And, dear reader, I can humbly report victory. I BEAT THE NUN.

A real nun, too. Not some hairy arsed rugger-bugger in a whimple. Sister Mary of the Holy Order of St Paula Radcliffe, stopping every 200 yards to let fly with a stream of ... oh, never mind, you get the idea.

I BEAT THE NUN.

All this, I might add, carrying minor injuries sustained on my drive home on Friday evening.

You may remember my dice with death the other week, miraculously escaping injury in a multiple-car smash-up on the M3. Like the film Final Destination, however, fate caught up with me in the most ironic way possible, by sending someone to rear-end The Silver Hornet whilst sitting at some traffic lights in Salisbury.

My neck and back are full of ouchies, but it was the thought of making Baby Jesus cry that spurred me on on Sunday morning (not to mention the best part of £200 for Cancer Research), as I roared past Sister Mary with a cry of "LOL!" to my ultimate penguin-thrashing victory.

I did not sick inna hedge.

I BEAT THE NUN.