The Running Man

 Back in the "Fitness Area" at the health centre. You'd think I'd be black-balled. 

I thought I'd escaped being papped at The Coast of Everything book launch in Dublin, but no, there I was, wine glass in hand, buck-toothed and swollen and, apparently, a foot shorter than my publisher, even though I don't think I actually am. I look like Penfold without his glasses, the blinking apple-pip eyes, lips curling back for...what? A nutritious bowl of sunflower seeds? A quick suck on glass water-bottle as big as I am, hanging from the roof of my cage. 

 I can still look good in photos, as long as I'm very careful about the composition and lighting, and I fool myself that that's what I look like, and that John Patrick Higgins, my literary avatar, lives in a crisp, black and white world, the light falling just so over his cheekbones, as he stares down a satellite camera, buzzing him like a drone. He also doesn't appear to need any glasses. Bully for that fucker.  

The John Patrick Higgins

The real John Higgins, the guy who shows and just TALKS, is a short, pudgy bloke in the trousers of a much younger man, a much younger man from a bygone era. His colours are grey, pink and navy, like a Genderflux Pride flag. He gleams and is permanently moist. The handshake is a trial. 

It's the second guy who's shown up for physio today, though he's swapped his tourniquet trousers for twenty year old tracksuit bottoms. The trousers are probably older than the physiotherapist. 

I shouldn't be here but I missed my last session, which was supposed to be my last session anyway. But when I noticed I'd missed the appointment (two days after the appointment) I rang to apologise and they booked me an extra session anyway. I've done bugger all of the exercises, getting caught up in writing. I reached a point with my new book where it started to "reveal itself", it started to tell me what it was. It was exciting. Some of the writing was really starting to work and, equally, I found I was able to delete vast tranches of stuff that had proved ballast. It was exciting. And when I looked up I was two days late for physio. I was mortified. I have impeccable manners. And it had taken a year to get the physio to start with and, not only had I not shown up for the appointment, I'd just been sat on my arse typing. I'm as brittle and crunchy as I was at the start of this process, and that's not something you can hide from a physiotherapist. She'll hear the crackle of my kindling kneecaps. That's her job. 

It is, predictably, pissing down today and very muggy, so, yes, I'm sweating and, despite having had a shower, I think I'm sweating out the savoury umami of a packet of chicken and thyme Sensations I ate yesterday. Great. She's going to love me. So moreish.  

I arrived half an hour early for this (hence all this writing) and she's running late. I've had forty five minutes on my own, sitting with my thoughts, damp and smelling of crisps. I've learned nothing about myself. 

P.S. It was fine. We got on great. She was pleased with my progress. She signed me off from physio. We talked about running quite a lot. I might take up running. Couch to 5K. I asked her how long it might take and she appraised me and suggested 3 months. Fit by Christmas, I reckon. We'll see. 

P.P.S. I don't care particularly that Andy Burnham has won his hotly contested local election. I only care that Reform lost, and that fucking clown they picked as their guy can return to the obscurity bunker, where he can be a cunt without consequences again. I doubt he's had a long dark night of the soul about this. He'll just double down on being an arsehole. Maybe he'll write another novel.

 Burnham beat Reform by 9000 votes, which is three times as many votes won by any other party other than Reform. The Tories have just disappeared. Wild.