We’re back to the ambition posts. I don’t run. I don’t jog. I walk. I walk fast. Frankly, it’s more like marching. Perhaps it would even be marching if I knew how to hold my thumbs. Sid talked me through it once but I think I’m just cursed with inelegant thumbs. No matter how I hold them, they seem to jut out awkwardly.

And, I’ve said this many times at Movie Night so some of you might know this but, if I was being chased down by an axe-murderer, I would hope that a well-timed joke would be enough to save my skin. I don’t think I could hurry my pace even in desperate circumstances.

However, it’s not just lack of practise, fitness, finesse or thinness that puts me off vigorous jogging. It’s not the many years of smoking, drinking and general slouching that turns me cold. It’s not that I turn reddish purple at the slightest hint of purposeful velocity. It’s that modern bras don’t come with enough support.

If you don’t remember them, you’ll have seen the 1940s style bras, the pointed Madonna-esque cotton jobs. They had inch-thick straps and seemed pretty damn sturdy. Like two chest-mounted air raid shelters, with zigzag stitching.


I need one of those. But in violet. Or turquoise. Might as well give the paramedics something pretty to look at when they resuscitate me.