A bird (poo) in the hand…

As a long-distance trail runner, I’m no stranger to poo.  I’ve lurked behind bushes in the dead of night hoping that no-one notices me and I’ve face-planted in finest Lake District goo which I tell myself is pure, unadulterated mud despite the laughing sheeps.  I make a mental decision to leave a certain amount of prissyness on the shoe rack every time I put on my trail shoes, and devour any articles I find which assure me that immune systems, like muscles, benefit from regular workouts.

But when I run under an unremarkable tree on a pavement in deepest suburbia and emerge with a handful of guano my squeamishness knows no bounds and I want nothing more than to chop off my own arm and dive into a bathtub of Dettol.  I didn’t, obviously.  I wiped my hand on the nearest bush, made a mental note to wipe my forehead with my other mitt and finished my run as planned.

And then I came home and chopped off my own arm.


About abradypus

A Bradypus or Sloth am I, I live a life of ease, contented not to do or die but idle as I please; ... [Michael Flanders and Donald Swann]
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3 Responses to A bird (poo) in the hand…

  1. On the one hand, this could be described as brilliant…. But on the other, it’s a bit of crap.

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