Inge de Bruin is determined that this year...next year...2010 we are running the City to Surf. I am being dragged along with her plans, kicking and screaming. I don't like it and, frankly, I'm frightened.
Last night we began our running training. I won't go into details except to say that it was horrifying. Afterwards we went to the pub. By 'went' I mean that Inge strolled in as though nothing was amiss with the world and I crawled in after her, sobbing, gasping for a glass of champers. Over dinner all my so-called friend wanted to do was discuss strategy. I was starting to feel hassled and a trifle sulky.
Because she's got dodgy knees, Inge can't do a lot of road running. She suggested that we train in King's Park, running on the stretch of grass leading up to the DNA tower.
"I like that idea," I said. "Particularly when the evenings get darker. No danger of being run over by a car. The worst that could happen to us is we'll be murdered!"
Inge smiled. "hazelblackberry, I couldn't think of anyone I'd rather be buried next to in a shallow grave."
Given what's been getting dished out lately, I'll take that as a compliment to treasure.