Jonny McCambridge: More tales from the silly season...parking woes, using my core and the bag for life
If my carefully laid plans have been followed, I am still away on holiday as you read this. It is, to be honest, a strange dynamic.
But by the time this is published, the world champions will have been crowned and their celebrations will have already died down. Unless, of course, it is England, in which case they will last for decades.
Last week I brought you tales from the silly season.
This week, I bring you more of the same.
The more cynical may have surmised that this offering is made up of bits were considered not good enough last time. That's more or less correct.
Parking woes: I go to the supermarket early to get my shopping done before it gets too busy. There are just a few cars in the car park. I park close to the store entrance.
Now, in the interests of transparency, I concede that my motor is not entirely in the centre of the space marked out by white lines.
If measured with a ruler, I may be slightly closer to one side than the other. But the car park is close to empty and there are hundreds of vacant spaces so it would appear not to matter. I am carefree.
I return less than 20 minutes later to find the car park is still close to empty. Apart from the maroon coloured car which is parked right beside mine.
The motorist has left their car at a diagonal angle but close enough that it is impossible to open my driver's side door.
I stand there shaking my head and looking around. I observe the hundreds of empty spaces.
Eventually, I have to go to the passenger side of my car, open the door and then begin to attempt to maneouvre myself across.
My leg is being forced into an angle that it really should not go. I am too old for this.
As I painfully attempt to lift my rump over the perils of the gearstick, I am mumbling bitterly to myself.
"Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?”
The fitness class: It feels like I am fighting a losing battle to maintain some acceptable level of fitness. The more that I run, the slower I seem to go.
The more stretching classes I go to, the stiffer and sorer I become. The hot weather is not helping, sapping what little energy I have left.
There are six women and myself in the Pilates class. We are in the downstairs studio. In the gym upstairs several large rugby players are lifting heavy weights and I can hear the clanks and thuds of metal through the ceiling.
I am bad at Pilates and am the only member of the class that the instructor regularly has to correct when doing the stretches.
"Lift your leg a bit higher Jonny...no, higher than that...a bit higher still.”
“It doesn't go….ow….any higher.”
We are sitting upright. The current exercise involves allowing our torsos to fall back onto the mat, and then lifting ourselves up again to seated, all in one graceful, controlled motion.
Doing the exercise correctly involves the use of the stomach muscles, rather than the legs, back or neck. I am always poor at it, but tonight I am particularly useless.
Every time I attempt to rise, my legs come off the floor.
"Come on Jonny, keep the legs down...use those deep-seated abdominal muscles...use your core.”
“I don't have...ugh...any deep-seated...muscles.”
The older woman on the mat next to me is doing the exercise without difficulty. She smiles sympathetically at my evident struggles.
I try harder. I tense my stomach fiercely as I attempt to lift my torso from the mat. The torso does not rise, but I do succeed in breaking wind noisily.
Bag for life: I am in the corner shop. I only came in for milk but, now that I am here, I have ended up purchasing several items.
Having neglected to get a basket, my arms are full. Now, I decide, I had better get a bottle of wine for my wife, to stop me having to come back later. And perhaps a few beers for myself to have when the football is on later.
I am gasping and wheezing as I deposit the goods on the counter. The young man with the smirk is working today. I can never shake the feeling that he looks down on me, that he despises me. His smirk seems to lift just a little.
"Would you like a bag for life sir?”
“No, could I just have a normal bag please.”
This seems to thrown him.
“Uh, a bag for life is a normal bag sir...it's the same thing.”
It seems to me that this explanation opens multiple potential lines of challenge. But I'm just too worn out and beaten down to be bothered. I ask him to give me a bag for life.
The young assistant starts to cram the goods into the plastic bag. It quickly becomes clear that it is not capacious enough to contain all of the shopping. I watch as he does this. Should he not offer a second bag? Should I intervene and ask for another? His eye meets mine briefly and the unmistakeable trace of a smirk is still there as he wedges the milk into the now bulging bag.
He hands the bag to me and wishes me a good day. I nod before leaving.
As I begin the short walk home I consider that I have hundreds of bags for life stuffed into the cupboard underneath the sink. What difference will one more make?
I hear a single thud at first. Then a ripping sound before there are several more dull thuds. I consider how my latest bag for life did not last five minutes as I watch the bottles of wine and beer roll down the pavement.