It’s Monday morning and I’m sat on
my sofa in my pyjamas. Yes, you’re right,
I should count myself jolly fortunate not to be chained to my desk, but in all
honesty I’m feeling a bit sorry for myself.
And I blame sport.
As I’m sure most of you will have
picked up from previous blogs, I have been less than enthusiastic about the Olympics
but, subconsciously or not, I think I too have been inspired by the
achievements of our athletes. On
Saturday I decided to diversify from my usual exercise regime and went for a
swim. I quite enjoyed it and, although
speed is not my strength, I did a good 60 lengths at not a bad pace.
I should have left happy – but
sadly my mood was dampened (no pun intended) by the attitude of another swimmer
sharing the medium lane with me. Yes, I
wasn’t the fastest swimmer in the lane (but certainly not the slowest) and I do
expect the odd speedygonzalez to whizz past me on occasion – especially when
there isn’t a fast lane for them to occupy.
But what I don’t expect is for them to cut me up when they
overtake. Or to dive under other swimmers to get past. And certainly not to swim on top of me.
Yes, this happened. I looked around to see the said water-baby
actually on my legs. She looked up at
me. I looked back, waiting for her to,
well, stop, and at least smile an apology.
“If you don’t like people
overtaking you, you should swim in the slow lane.”
I was dumbfounded at this
response.
“You might be better suited there.” She continued.
I gave her my most withering look, shook my head in disbelief and carried on swimming. There was absolutely no point arguing with
this woman who was further up her own arse than her grannyfied swimming
costume. But I couldn’t help but feel
outraged at her lack of manners – and sheer cheek. A prime example of how having a plummy accent
doesn't always mean you’ve been brought up well.
However, I will not be defeated
by fitness freaks who like to belittle people who aren’t quite as good as they
are. So, on Sunday, I went for a
jog. The start was hard-going - a steep hill followed by a slight but relentless incline before flattening out and
gradually going downhill. Which it did
in more ways than one.
I was going at a respectable pace
and feeling good. After the hard slog up
to Highgate Woods, I was debating jogging all the way to Finsbury Park – and keeping
going until I got home. However, a small
and unseen rock poking up in my path put an end to this, and within an instant
I had added diving to my repertoire. As
I glided onto the floor my water bottle rolled to the feet of a couple walking
by who, either down to common decency or a lack of choice, checked that I was
okay.
“At least you missed the dog poo.” The woman offered and I managed a little joke
in return. As they walked on I assessed
the damage. My elbow was scarlet and my
hand pretty grazed too, plus my knee was throbbing. I hobbled home to lick my wounds.
After a shower and a liberal
application of Savlon to my affected bits, I decided to relax in front of the
telly with a plate of beans on toast. I
flicked it on, hoping to find an episode of Come
Dine with Me or Deal or No Deal. What did I find? Bloody Paralympics.
Don’t get me wrong; I think the
Paralympics is fantastic and much more inspiring that it’s big brother. But after my recent experience, I really didn’t
want to see people much less able bodied than me whooping my ass in the
disciplines I had just failed so spectacularly at. I mean, you don’t see any of them being
belittled in the swimming pool or sprawling head-first across the athletics
track, do you? Whereas I, all limbs
intact and with a body that is supposed to function as it should, can’t even manage
that. NOT good for the old ego.
And, let’s face it, when you’re
feeling a bit beaten by the world, you want comfort telly. For me, that is Channel 4 with its lifestyle
programmes and silly quizzes. With dismay
I realised that the sports coverage was on until late at night and, mildly
disgusted, turned off the telly and tuned into Radio 6.
So, the moral of the story? Sport is not always good for you. Physically and emotionally. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I need to
reapply my Ibuprofen...