Running out

About 4:30 this afternoon I returned to Victoria Park, to do a 6 mile run. As the running track is only 600 metres long, that meant running round it 16 times, a rather taxing tax for my mind, if not my body.

As it's Sunday, there were a lot more people out, all intent in getting in the way. Whether it was hipsters walking the wrong way round the track, or little old ladies trying to walk while waggling their arms like failed chicken dance entrants, or just people veering from one side of the track to the other, every lap added a few more people I wanted to punch in the back of the head.

Not everyone was aggravating. I saw a little old man feeding the cats that live in the park. Not only had he troubled himself to bring in a bag of tinned cat food, but he carefully spooned the food out onto big fallen leaves for the cats to eat from, rather than having to eat off the ground or straight from the tin. What a nice chap.

There was nobody to be seen practising kung fu today, but there was a band playing terrible Bon Jovi covers at one end of the park, which provided some variety as I kept running around, and around, and around.¹

The other strange thing in the park, that you only see on Sundays, is how many of the Indonesian helpers are into heavy metal and 70s punk, as demonstrated by the preponderance of leather jackets, tartan bondage trousers and black t-shirts. This is a strange phenomenon that nobody ever remarks upon, as if it were obvious that people from somewhere really hot like Indonesia would be bound to like music made by grumpy ex-welders from Birmingham. I would have stopped to point this out, but I was far too sweaty and I don't think it would be good for me to start a conversation when all I'm wearing is a pair of shorts and some training shoes.

Anyway, run done, I walked back to the flat, past various domestic helpers cuddling up on the benches in the park, or going through elaborate dance routines, or just not working for one day of the week. Got home, showered, finished sweating ten minutes after that. Damn my body's perverse attempts at homeostasis.

¹ and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around, to be exact.