The tracksuit top is warm and nyloney. My breaths come out rhythmically – puff, puff, puff. My legs feel rusty and underused. But I have reached the top of the stairs, and can now collect my MP3 player from the bedroom.
I turn to retrace my steps. Going down is easier; I reach the bottom with no major physical problems.
There is a knock on the door!!!
It is Mrs Short Tony, with a message that they are going away for a couple of days.
“Well, I am going for a run,” I tell her, proudly.
“You what?” she asks.
I repeat myself. She looks doubtful, explains that Short Tony can hardly walk and asks if I know whether we fell over on the way back from the pub on Saturday. But I am not listening. Her doubtful look is hurtful and unnecessary. I am starting to feel that nobody believes in me. This is what happened to David Bowie, Sting etc when they switched media and went into motion pictures. I think that some people find it hard to believe that somebody who is a great writer can also be a great runner. It is not an either/or situation.
She takes her leave. I decide to wait for a bit until there is slightly less traffic outside.