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<\/p>\nI had a call from my clerk a while ago. “I see you’re running in the NY Marathon”.<\/p>\n
“I am?”<\/p>\n
“Your wife has booked the time free in your diary. Apparently you told her you would do it.”<\/p>\n
“I raised it in the bloody abstract”.<\/p>\n
It is one of P’s missions in life to keep an eye on my doughy middle-aged form and to intervene in the entirely subtle and diplomatic manner so favoured by George W Bush. I stumbled into the house with a vague intention of going for a run when a magazine left casually on the coffee table caught my eye:<\/p>\n
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I racked my brain. Had I bought it? It’s not my kind of thing but I do sometimes feel that senility may be quietly nibbling at the corner of my mental carpet. Then it dawned on me: P had bought it. So which of the many banner headlines was aimed at me?<\/p>\n
It’s possible she just thought I would be interested in the Mourinho article. Or was she anxious I should “smell sexy” or, more disturbingly, “master the quickie”. “More sex less begging” rang a bell\u00c2\u00a0– wasn’t that one of my New Year’s Resolutions? But did she really think that I was going to develop rock hard abs?<\/p>\n
As I leafed through page after page of gel haired 20 year olds with polished pecs and shaven nipples\u00c2\u00a0misery fell upon me. \u00c2\u00a0I longed to be outside a pub with my fellow balding weebles; our centres of gravity merely inches above our shoelaces.\u00c2\u00a0 Why can’t someone publish “Indolent Fat Fuck’s Monthly”? I’d subscribe. P came through the door and I challenged her. “Oh it had been bought for the jury at Portsmouth Crown Court and the usher was throwing it out.”<\/p>\n
“Yes but what are you trying to tell me woman?”<\/p>\n
“That Jason Statham is gorgeous … can I have it back now please”?<\/p>\n
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