The fear of the long-distance runner

A cheesy local radio DJ pointed out the other day that “the running season is in full swing” – as if I needed any reminding.

I work a literal stone’s throw from the South Bank of the Thames and so any foray out of the office at lunchtime requires me to do battle with the hordes of vest-and-shorts-clad runners who are pounding the concrete in their desperate attempts to keep fit.

Runners (never, ever call them joggers – a word that conjures up images of middle-aged women in flannel tracksuits) seem to think that they own the towpath and pavement in the area of London where I work.

Red-faced and sweating profusely, they hurtle towards the humble pedestrian, narrowly changing their course at the last minute to avoid a violent collision.

They never speak, probably because they’d expire if they tried, but issue angry glares at anyone who causes them to deviate from their set route.

I have never yet collided with one of these ‘athletes’, but I go out in constant fear that my next lunchtime will be my last.

Yet another reason why I shun most forms of exercise!