Archive for April 3rd, 2008

Step On

So, I was planning on going out for a run this afternoon. I haven’t been out in a week, and I have bought myself an iPod Shuffle especially. I was thinking of downloading some tunes worth running to. The first one that came to mind, as must be the case for anyone anywhere who has thought about running to music, was the theme from Rocky. Then I thought, inevitably, about Hillary Clinton’s remarks about Rocky again.

She said:

“Could you imagine if Rocky Balboa had gotten halfway up those art museum stairs and said, ‘Well, I guess that’s about far enough’? That’s not the way it works”

And then I was thinking, how many steps are there anyway? And I found the answer, written in yellow, on the Parkway Council Foundation website:

Q: How many “Rocky” steps lead up the east side of the Philadelphia Museum of Art?
A: 76!

76 steps is nuthin’. And the steps are fairly well spaced out, too. Any eejit who’s any way used to running could run up them without much pain. For Rocky, or anyone else to stop when running up them during a run wouldn’t have meant they were a quitter: it would have meant that either a) they pulled a hamstring or b) they had a perverse approach to exercise, since it would require more mental effort to stop.

I realise this is of no import whatsoever, since Clinton’s intention was not to make sense on the matter, but I had to share it with someone nonetheless.

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End Of

I was watching the TV coverage of Bertie Ahern’s resignation last night. Eoghan Harris was on saying that once the effects of the Bertie bombshell had worn off, the Irish people would go into a period of mourning.

And, do you know, he’s right. This morning, as I started my second Weetabix, in the very moment that the spoon began crushing the granules of sugar against my front teeth, I looked out into the back garden, and saw a field mouse scuttling among the ferns, and I began to blubber uncontrollably, moaning and roaring like a small child bitten by his first labrador. I stuttered into the sitting room, sobs halting my steps, and flung myself down onto the sofa, and began writhing like a salmon that had just been shot by a cruel-mouthed gamekeeper.

Now he is gone, I look back and see his marks everywhere. Like that time when my child was born, and I looked to the ceiling in the hospital and saw a builder’s grubby footprint on one of the tiles.

Bertie has left us to tread our own path. I found myself wandering in the middle of the road this morning, amidst the cars. The builders haven’t put a footpath in yet. Sure it’s only been five years.


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