Chasing hounds

January 6, 2013

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there are an awful lot of joggers at 7:30 am. I see them each morning from my balcony window (as I tend to the geraniums in my dressing gown, obviously) on their way to the river. Some are fat, their wobbly bits jiggling as they  puff along and I  know that for them this is a fad, a New Year resolution that will evaporate quicker than they can pant to ten. Others are seasoned proper runners who sprint with the ease of an Olympic athlete. I can, of course, also tell that they are proper runners because their faces are saggy and their jowls wobble like a St Bernard dog’s. That, of course, is the real reason why I don’t run. No saggy jowls for me, I’ll have you know. Well, that and my dodgy knees, but let’s not get into that.

Anyway, I have thought about getting fit. I think about it quite a lot, but you know how it is. I did quite take a fancy though, to the gold plated dumb bells I was told to write a pitch for last week. Great big shiny things that looked like – well, not dumb bells. They were curved and golden and long and I couldn’t quite see how, if you were really going to use them for a spot of weight lifting, you could easily grasp them. They were, if truth be told, a bit phallic and a bit rude. I wondered if they were really intended as sex toys, but then my imagination failed me and I couldn’t see what you would do with them. Emily, the new office PA obviously did though, because she and that silly girl she works with kept making excuses to walk past my desk and giggle. So immature.

Anyway, one thing I did learn about Emily during her many detours to my desk was that she likes being chased by hounds. Proper hounds. Emily is a cross-country runner, you see, only she is one of those who thinks nothing of doing 15 miles with salivating hunting dogs hot on her heels. Apparently it is all the craze in the fox loving country set. Those inclined let dogs become familiar with their scent and then let them hunt them across the freezing countryside, thereby saving the good old British fox.

“You should try it one day, Alan,” she said, and then, looking me up and down added: “Well, may be just come and watch. The idea is not to get caught, you see.”

Very funny.

I give her ten years before she gets that saggy jowl look. That’s if the hounds don’t catch her first, of course.

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