I will be the first to admit: I am a middle-aged, short-arsed fat bastard. And, in a mis-guided attempt to deal with the one of the three that I have any control over, I have started running again.
One week in - and shying away like a complete yellow chicken from an offer to go rowing round the watery hell of Portland Harbour - it's harsh, harsh work. This is entirely because we live at the top of a hill, and any run inevitably ends thussly:
And like some sort of self-masochist, I do laps of this, taking me down the Rodwell Trail, dog shit capital of the world.
On my first lap of my course, I run past the thoughfully-rpovided dog shit bin, noting that it has been crammed full with a rug, which some filthy bastard is too lazy to get rid of in the conventional manner (for eg, an actual bin outside their house)
On my second lap of my course, I jog past the same bin, and old lady eyeing the crap-infested rug with the kind of longing you only see from four-year-olds in the sweet aisle in a supermarket.
On my third lap of my course, I amble past the bin to see it devoid of rug, old lady dashing away furtively with it under her arm, muttering the words "It'll wash out, it'll wash out".
By the look of it, it won't wash out.
And then, catching a waft, I was sick inna hedge.
Exercise: BAD FOR YOU
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