December Doldrums

[Sweder]

05:23. Beepbeepbeepbeepbeep . . . bloody beep.
Uuuuurgh.

Cape Town’s best efforts at a Mancunian Mizzle swirled around my window as I prized my bloodshot eyes open. Must get a very big hammer to help with that alarm clock . . .

Last night had been one of those unplanned crackers. An evening stroll on Upper Long Street from the Mount Nelson hotel, imperial elegance nestled in the foothills of the Great Table, rejoicing in the gentle warmth of a Cape Zephyr. Decked out in my best fifty quid New Delhi linen whistle and open-necked crumpled white shirt (the perfect attire for supping Shiraz in the bar at the Mount Nelson) I meandered in a happy daze. But lo! What light from yonder neon breaks? A name loomed large from the colourful street scene ahead; The Dubliner. Lawks a-mercy. It’d be rude not to . . .

Some hours later I’m swapping travelogs with a lovely couple from home making their way around the region. They’re a cultured pair, mid forties, attractive, well-heeled. She does something for the Beeb, quite high up in the background team for Jonathan Ross and Have I Got News For You; he works for IFAW, an ultruist living the dream, travelling the world to save the more vulnerable parts of our Planet.

It was all going so well. And then Benfica scored. I’d had an eye on the TV in the corner but the game looked dour. Lord Ferg had once again rolled out his ill-advised 4-5-1 to snuff out the visiting threat, but this never allows for the unthinkable, and of course it happened. We carried on chatting (he was quite keen on footie but preferred to talk about the astonishing sights of the game reserves they’d been through), my attention occasionally drawn to a flurry of red on the screen, then
Wooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!!!!!!
GET IN!!!!
COME ON!!!!

My companions shrank back in horror as leaped into mid-air, Guinness perilously close to spilling, linen jacket-tails flying, left fist hurled towards the screen. The whole thing kind of slid away from there really; I took a keen interest in the second half, the MU Rowdies in full flow like a newborn bursting to life; a smacked arse does wonders for the lungs, it seems. It all became a bit of a blur after that, the glowing alarm showing numbers in the low single digits when I finally crashed through my bedroom door.

Hardly ideal preparation for the IDF 5K Run To Change Diabetes.
At least the weather had conspired in my favour. Cold, wet, a strong breeze . . . this is all to the good. The throbbing in my frontal lobes settled into a background rhythm as I joined the gathering flock under the lighthouse at Three Anchor Bay. Around 1500 hardy souls turned out for the plod, including some work colleagues from the IDF and the CTICC (Convention Centre). The Mighty Kuobus, the centres’ amiable colossus and health & safety specialist, amongst them. Kuobus is Old School Afrikaans and a lovely man to work with. His gutteral use of my native language masks an easy humour and a sharp mind.

Memories of the run itself, like those of the night before, are a bit of a blur.
I made it home in something like 24 minutes. The winner, a Fin, came in a shade outside 17 minutes, tussling all the way with a Swede, though obviously not this one. It’ll take him some time to wipe the broad grin from his chiselled features I’m sure.

If there’s a moral to this story I guess it’s don’t sink 8 pints of Guinness and a bottle of Shiraz the night before a race. Even a 5K.

There’s some serious reparations to be made when I get home.