Boy, it’s grim weather here today: heavy cloud and constant drizzle.
Looking out of the window I can see a massive, black, anvil-shaped monster of a thundercloud to the north just idly waiting until Audrey and I leave the house for our afternoon stroll around the park. It looks as if it is about to collapse under its own weight of grey.
Hum, I know that feeling.
We already got soaked to the skin when we were out by the old railway tracks this morning at eight o’clock. I didn’t mind, though, because we encountered a gorgeous female jogger who we often see down that part of the village. I was going to introduce myself but I messed up as usual.
‘Lovely morning,’ she panted as she drew near.
‘Is it?’ was my inspired reply.
Is it? Good grief, no wonder she frowned and just carried on past us, puzzled and slightly frightened. Is it? I was frowning too. The way I blunder through my lonely bachelorhood is a constant source of amazement to me.
My dissatisfaction with my awkward and depressingly charmless personality was tempered somewhat on the way home by my recollection of her tight Lycra jogging bottoms.
I just couldn’t get them out of my mind.
Their image remained there for most of the morning, in fact, precise and perfectly represented (I have a pornographic memory), suggesting to me all the stimulating possibilities for sexual mayhem that two healthy adults might enjoy together on the floor of a small recording studio on a wet and misty morning in April.
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