Back in the eighties you`d have seen me swing round with a roar and a rude gesture. But today--out in the sunshine, and now that my furious and feisty feminist past has mellowed...I`m grateful for all the toots I can get, frankly.
Of course,the lorry driver might have been alerting me to his presence, in case I fancied leaping into his path. Pah. I do, often get it wrong.
Only moments before, I`d turned from the lane where I live into what we call `the secret path`. It runs between the lane and the main road, and is narrow with overgrown trees and shrubbery each side, quite dark and tunnel like but lovely really. Anyway,it runs alongside our neighbour`s garden.I usually stride up the lane to warm up a bit, trot up the path, and start running when I hit the main road.
Today I was stopped in my tracks by the sight of Fred. That`s not his name, but I`d like to conceal his identity. Fred was sitting in the middle of the (narrow, remember...and dark) path, on a fine, ladder backed kitchen chair. `Lost the plot`, he said. Not sure whether to empathise enthusiastically....or turn back and tactfully pretend I hadn`t seen him, I tried a `pardon?`. `WATCH THE POT!`;he repeated, pointing to the tub of paint he was using to touch up his fence.
See what I mean about getting the wrong end of the stick? I`d finally got to the end of my route (really not far...but further than yesterday) when I noticed two of the village`s..um...elder statesmen, standing at the end of a driveway.`You ant come farrrr`, said one. I told him I`d only just started running again..and this was my morning mile. At which point they both chortled...and started reminiscing about the last time they could `go a mile in the morrrrrrrrrnin`.
Ahh. Village life. Double entendres. Happy running....!
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