Back On The Mean Streets

You have to promise not to laugh. Last Sunday I was out on the precious bike, the vestiges of plantar fasciitis decreeing that running was out of the question. You really wouldn't credit it but I was attacked by a stationary car. That's my story anyway. Okay, I will admit some contributory negligence on my part. I had slipped a gear as I came to the top of an incline and I was being clever by unclippng and trying to persuade the chain back using my foot. I have done this before but this time it took longer than I had allowed for and that is when when the stationary car jumped out at me. I took a right old smack on the head (thanks goodness for the helmet) and drew blood (quite a bit of it actually) from leg, arm and left hand. I still bear the scars and my hand is too swollen for golf but all in all I got off lightly for this bit of self-inflicted stupidity. Most importantly the car and the bike were both fine.

Big Fat Pig Comes A Cropper

But it takes more than one act of crass stupidity to discourage the Pig. No I haven't been back out on the bike - The Groupie would not allow that. Give it time. No, I have started running again after a lengthy interval - a full three months to be precise. I have mastered the strapping-up of the offending foot and, touch wood, so far so good. Mind you I have thus far confined myself to two flat runs of 2.5k. And, do you know what, I feel all the better for it. I was even cheerfully greeted by one resident on my route who enquired why I had been absent for so long. That alleged canard, the Runner's High, turns out to have a basis in the truth. 

The Money Pit would not be anyone's idea of a great film but as fare for a Sunday afternoon it more than does the job. It relies on physical comedy rather than any degree of wit, scabrous or otherwise. 57/100. A nice alternative to watching the Olympics and having to put up with the ungrammatical inanity that passes for analysis in much of the BBC coverage - there are honourable exceptions of course but you do pine for the days of David Coleman and Ron Pickering. 

All of which is a welcome distraction from the seamier side of the news. In America, Trump manages to crawl lower and lower with his dog-whistle fascism. There is at least an ocean that separates us from that horror. But at home an opportunistic embodiment of race-hatred erupts into violence on our streets. Less than ten miles from where I safely type this, a hostel for asylum-seekers was attacked last night. Let me be clear, nothing, I repeat nothing justifies this immoral godlessness. Nothing.