Mostly I get drunk and pretend the urge was a dream, occasionally I do something about it (usually when I'm already drunk....Its amazing what a high state of inebriation can do for your athletic prestige)
Today is one of those days. The strange little voice in my head (the one that's convinced it knows what's best) has insisted that I go jogging.
Normally I think jogging is a symbol of 20th century man's inabilty to accept himself for what he is (an under-exercised slob) and attempt to reach a higher plane of existence through physical exhaustion.
But today I'm drunk, so I pretend to be a middle class man with 2.3 children and a mortgage. (Probably the worst nightmare I've ever had)
I'm dressed in my latest trendy, imitation, jogging gear (white boxer shorts, string vest and worn out plimsolls) I take a last swig from the almost empty (how come bottles of drink are always half empty, not half full ?) bottle of Vietnamese vodka and jog off down the street.
I get to the bottom of the street and head for the 'Joggers Paradise' artificial forest. (It used to be called a green belt, but someone dug it up by mistake. Now there's more wood in the picnic tables than the tree's.)
A nun passes me on her rowing machine. She gives me a friendly wave but I pretend I did'nt see her. (Nuns bring me out in spots, something to do with purity and virtue I think )
I'm feeling good now, into my stride and feeling no pain. I jog along side a family of gerbils out on their exercise wheels. We have a brief conversation but I jog on as soon as possible. Gerbils are only interested in talking about sesame seeds and the virtues of burrowing.
Deeper in to the woods now and I begin to get a little uneasy. The trees begin to take on human features. There's one that looks like my analyst. I control the urge to lay in front of the tree and start talking about my childhood.
The uneasy feeling is broken by a flasher leaping in front of me.
"What do you think of this then ?" he shouts, wiggling his dangly bits at me.
I pull out my gun and shoot him. That'll teach him to be strange.
I finally exit the woods and my unease vanishes as the golden rays of the sun wash over me in a catalyst of warmth and colour (I should be in advertising, that last bit would sound great if you used it to describe a breakfast cereal, its a shame I'm clinically insane)
Time for a rest I think. I drop onto the grass and catch my breath. A large swig of Vodka also helps clear the red dots from in front of my eyes.
A squad of US Marines jogs past, their legs and arms moving in perfect synchronisation as the sunlight glints from their lobotomy scars. I briefly wonder why they're wearing matching pink mini skirts and orange lycra tights with their army issue boots but decide that they're probably practising camouflage techniques. (You have to admire them though. Who would suspect that underneath that effeminate gear hides a psychotic killing machine with the intelligence of a household vacuum cleaner)
Once the vodka's finished I head for home, a large group of kids follows me through the last couple of streets. I feel like Rocky must have done in the film. I turn on the spot with my arms held high above my head, bathing in the kids hero worship and shouts of admiration.
"Loony Loony. Look at the psycho, he's wearing a string vest !!!"
"Where you bin' loony ? When did they let you out ?"
I suddenly recognise the taunts for what they are. I slowly collapse into a crouch, feigning angst and confusion. Then I reach for the gun.....
I'm OK now. The kids were sorry, they were only teasing. They all said how much they liked my jogging gear and that they all thought Rocky was a wimp compared to me. I only had to shoot one or two of them this time, so their respect must be growing for me (It took nearly fifty bullets the first time, but I was'nt as self-confident then)
Maybe I should think about settling down and raising a family. I think I'm good with kids.
They always respect me.
Check out the rest of ". . . And Still The Moon"
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