The Jogging

Early. Bloody warm already. Out on the streets. Pounding the pavement. Knackered, but moving. Body complaining. The knees doing a whole thing. Like always.

Haven’t done this for ages. Reasons. Don’t want to get into that. The main thing is moving. Burning the fat.

Turn up the road towards home. Blimey. Him again. The dog walker.

—Morning!

—Alright?

—Out again then?

—Yeah.

—Nice morning for it!

—Yeah.

—Keep going, mate!

—Ta.
Talking takes oxygen. Don’t have any. Wheezing like an old bellows. Thought about walking. Just a bit. Take the pressure off. Nah. Keep going. But the effort is mad.

One more road. A hill. Sod it, I’ll walk. Nope. Off I go. Up the hill. Breathing like a steam engine. Make it to the top. Blow out. Hard. Trying to shift forty years of crap from my lungs.

Legs shot. Fuck it. Walk a bit. Let the aches settle. Shuffle again. Head down. Bad form. Get the head up. Neck creaks.

Two roads left. Stagger up the drive. Ring the bell.

Mary opens the door. Takes one look.

—You alright?

—Yeah.

—Did you jog most of it?

—Er—

—You did, didn’t you?

—Yep.

The eye-roll. Full Mary.

—What did I say to you? No harm in walking.

—I know.

—You’ll never learn.

Creak up the stairs. She’s right, of course. Always is.