All right, I admit it. I can still see my toes, but I’m not as svelte as I used to be.
So I dusted off the trainers I bought two years ago and hit the road for some jogging.
It wasn’t pretty and calling it jogging would be stretching it. It’s more of an amble along, whilst fighting back tears and trying not to cough up my lungs.
Apparently some people enjoy this pastime, but sweat pouring into your eyes and legs that feel like you’ve overdosed on horse tranquiliser just don’t do it for me.
If it was a fun run I’d have blokes in Womble suits or banana costumes overtaking me.
I’m so slow I reckon even that man who wears the old-fashioned brass-helmeted diving suit would give me a run for my money.