Today I wore shorts.
Far from being a grand gesture to welcome summer with open arms and double helpings of cellulite, I was thinking more along the lines of saving a pair of trousers getting drenched and slathered in mud. But hey, at least it was warm enough to wear shorts. In fact, doing jumping jacks while sprinting up the road, it was almost TOO warm.
So I set out to terrify woodland creatures and inflict psychological damage on my dog. Jed was so traumatised by the spectacle that he occasionally mistook my leg for a stick. Evidently a particularly large, squashy stick that emitted nuclear quantities of fluorescent energy.
For the last two days, dog-walking duty has fallen on me, since Husband sprained his ankle. Nothing exciting like commando-rolling through a plate glass window, or trying to execute a complex move in a sexually charged tango with a fat French double agent. No, I’m afraid it was all rather mundane. He was out walking. I like to think he’s talking it down. E.g. maybe he was attacked by a crazed squirrel, or fell down a pit lined with wooden stakes?
One way or another, that’s his Olympic dream in tatters.
He couldn’t have timed it better. Not only has the weather been savage, but the height of his recuperation coincided with rubbish relocation. Even I didn’t have the heart to send an injured man off down the drive with the rubbish, when every second step elicited a raw scream of pain compressed into an anguished grunt.
Husband is still lurching around the house and his trousers keep falling down around his knees. I’m not sure how this is related to spraining his ankle, but it must be. Unless you believe in coincidence. Which I don’t.