The other night, I saw a TV report that said if you walk for 30 minutes a day you decrease you risk of heart disease by 30%. I was walking every day, but I haven’t been walking these last 6 months, so I had better get back to it, I thought. It is such an easy thing to do really.
I should, but do I go for a walk? It’s cold, I think, at which very moment the sun comes out. What was that telling me? (Coincidentally, David) I push myself, drag my fat arse off the couch and get changed.
10.45am. I go for a walk for an hour out into the somewhat grey, cold day. (I love working from home. I started early)
I’m listening to the Rolling Stones, but of course. Let It Bleed.
The sun comes out again as I get to the park. Twice around the Carlton Gardens that is all I have to do.
The first person I see is a jogger in white shorts and a black singlet running towards me. He has nice muscular arms, and thick thighs, and he does rounds in the opposite direction to me as I do my circuits.
There is a couple of hot Asian boys jogging in black active wear. They have nice legs in, what are after all, their tights, hugging their shape.
11am. I see a bulldog near the cnr of Carlton Street & Nicholson Street, she has on a pink harness so I assume she is a girl bulldog. I chuckle to myself unless they is… er… are gender fluid.
11.05am. Two gorgeous Border Collies get out of a 4WD on Rathdowne Street and are told to sit on the grass while their owner faffs about getting leads and whatever, which they do.
I speak to David. His old fat housemate, Fat Fred, has just announced his new boyfriend on Facebook. “How can someone that fat get a new boyfriend… when I can’t?”
“Keep eating, in that case,” is my sage like advice.
He tells me the boyfriend is deaf and American.
“Two handicaps,” I say. (I don’t really mean that in my heart of hearts, but I was trying to make sense of it for my friend) “What is wrong with you?”
“I have been looking for him since I was sixteen, where is he?” says David. “My hair hurts.”
He sends me a photo of the two of them, and it looks like fat Fred has married himself, albeit a thinner version.
The sky is grey, it looks threateningly like rain, but I keep walking, what else am I supposed to do? Around by Victoria Parade. Up Nicholson Street again. Steady is my pace. I’m wearing shorts, I always wear shorts, as once I get walking I no longer feel any cold. I like to think the fresh air is good for my skin, my circulation, all of it. Stupid really. But the one thing I know, is if I wear track pants while exercising, I always get to a point where I feel like I am, if I said overheating you’d know I was exaggerating, but something like that.
I see a man walking a wolf looking at the Border Collies with a hungry expression as they all head towards the tennis courts.
I’ve fallen into my rhythm, and it is all plain sailing then. (no cliché is beyond me) I chastise myself for being lazy and promise to myself I am going to walk every day.
I nearly get all the way around on my second lap when at 11.30am, it starts to rain, as I am walking back up the Victoria Parade side of the park for the second time.
I walk the rest of the way home in the rain. The rain drips down off my forehead down my face, which I kind of like. It’s fresh, it’s freeing, I lick it off my lips. My hair begins to drip down the back of my neck. I walk without stopping heading to the verandas which start just over Brunswick Street. I’m quite wet by the time I cross at the lights, but when you are exercising in old clothes and messed up hair and nowhere to be but home and in the shower, it doesn’t matter, in fact it is kind of an excuse to not care and to get wet and enjoy it for once.
11.45am. I am home again. Bruno is excited to see me, he is always excited to see me when I come home from a walk, but I am wet and you know how I hate wet clothes. I want to get into the shower straight away. No time to play with an excited bulldog.
1pm. I have laksa for lunch. Sam has clay pot chicken rice.
I don’t have much work to do in the afternoon.
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