I went to see my friends Steph and Paddy for lunch and a country walk. Paddy is now two and walking and running around and chatting like a good un.
On our walk I decided to break into a run (as practice for my Half Marathon in Silverstone tomorrow) and Paddy ran along behind me. But I was a bit full of lunch and not dressed for exercise, so I soon slowed down to a walk. Paddy wasn't happy with this, "Run Rich, run!" he shrieked. So I started running again, or at least I shuffled my feet up and down in an approximation of a run, which is still better than he could manage when he was trying his hardest, the tiny idiot.
I hoped that a few seconds of this would be enough, but age has not curbed his persistence - "Run Rich, run," he cried. This carried on for some while. I could really use him as a personal trainer. A few times this week I've slowed from a run to a walk during my training and I could have done with having a tiny man behind me shouting "Run Rich, run!" every time he detected that I was walking. In the end the only way to avoid running was to run so far away that I'd gone round the corner, and then I was able to stop for a rest, until he came into view again. Of course, this meant I ended up running even further than I would have anwyay, so he still beat me as usual.
Paddy got a bit tired and cranky on the walk back to the car (He got tired? I was the one doing all the running), so I picked him up and carried him. He's grown a lot and Steph told me he now weighed two stone. It struck me that just over two years ago I was around about two stone heavier than I am now. Walking just a few hundred yards with this two stone weight in my arms made me realise just how much stress this extra weight must have put on me (and I wasn't as fit then as I am now either). Two stone is a Hell of a lot of extra weight to be carrying around. It's like constantly carrying around a large two year old boy and your fat doesn't even shout at you to run Rich, run whenever you slow to a walk.
I think I've got at least another couple of stone to lose as well, so it was a very telling realisation. My only real hope is that I go to the doctors and discover that a two year old boy has been unbenownst to me, living in my stomach for the last few months. Like some kind of leech, feeding off of the overflow from my stomach - which might explain why I've mainly wanted to eat just pizza and ice cream. I imagine that he was probably from the orphanage and that the government had been trying to save money, by secretly inserting him in my intestines whilst I slept.
If this was the case, the child could be surgically removed and then I would automatically be my target weight.
But who would look after the poor parentless babe once his host had rejected him?
I'd be happy to put him in a little cart attached to me by some string and give him a megaphone and employ him as my running coach. As long as he could master, "Run Rich, run!" we'd be laughing.