Saturday, July 10, 2004
Enter the Dragon
A lazy Saturday morning spent (wasted) in hospital. I'm on from 1400 to 0200 and considering I only woke at 1100 it's probably a good thing I stayed over last night.
I forgot, in my post alcoholic haze yesterday to write about this :
*****
"Stand Clear. Train doors Closing. Mind the Gap."
The words that always inspire even the most decrepit old women to bolt like racehorses from the starting gate. If Ferrari could bottle that indistinct whateveritis and put it in their engines, damn, we'd have a car.
Re-minisce is no different, except, ah, of course, he's neither old, nor female. Decrepit, he'll concede to.
He leans forwards into the wind, and sprints.
One pace.
Oneannahalf.
Bam. From 100 kph/s acceleration to 0.
Oops. I've just run into a tree trunk. It's someone's leg. It's a six-foot-and-a-bit someone's leg, and he's built like Schwarzennegar. And... cor blimey. Get this, he's reeling sideways.
Re-minisce puts out a hand to grab him and narrowly stops him braining himself on the heavily graffiti-d side of the train.
Now this is weird. Because
1) re-minisce is only five-seven, and on a good day, five eight.
2) re-minisce has a build that is best described as wiry, and on a bad day, outright malnourished
3) all projected computer simulations invariably predict wiry, skinny blokes bouncing off six-foot monsters, like the truth off Tony Blair, with pathetic little pinging noises (you know, like Bush, standing by his WMD claims. index finger raised and all.)
And here he is, mortified and grabbing the guy by the sleeve of his coat, thinking God this guy is Big. And muttering Sorry, sorry mate, I'm so sorry...
Hisss. The doors begin to slide closed, and light (and anger) begins to fade back into Mr Pro-Wrestler's eyes. Um. This would be a good time to hop onto the train.
My bag gets jammed in the door as I leap through. Thankfully, Mr Angry Man gives it a shove and I'm clear.
Damn. Those gym sessions must be doing something to me.
I forgot, in my post alcoholic haze yesterday to write about this :
*****
"Stand Clear. Train doors Closing. Mind the Gap."
The words that always inspire even the most decrepit old women to bolt like racehorses from the starting gate. If Ferrari could bottle that indistinct whateveritis and put it in their engines, damn, we'd have a car.
Re-minisce is no different, except, ah, of course, he's neither old, nor female. Decrepit, he'll concede to.
He leans forwards into the wind, and sprints.
One pace.
Oneannahalf.
Bam. From 100 kph/s acceleration to 0.
Oops. I've just run into a tree trunk. It's someone's leg. It's a six-foot-and-a-bit someone's leg, and he's built like Schwarzennegar. And... cor blimey. Get this, he's reeling sideways.
Re-minisce puts out a hand to grab him and narrowly stops him braining himself on the heavily graffiti-d side of the train.
Now this is weird. Because
1) re-minisce is only five-seven, and on a good day, five eight.
2) re-minisce has a build that is best described as wiry, and on a bad day, outright malnourished
3) all projected computer simulations invariably predict wiry, skinny blokes bouncing off six-foot monsters, like the truth off Tony Blair, with pathetic little pinging noises (you know, like Bush, standing by his WMD claims. index finger raised and all.)
And here he is, mortified and grabbing the guy by the sleeve of his coat, thinking God this guy is Big. And muttering Sorry, sorry mate, I'm so sorry...
Hisss. The doors begin to slide closed, and light (and anger) begins to fade back into Mr Pro-Wrestler's eyes. Um. This would be a good time to hop onto the train.
My bag gets jammed in the door as I leap through. Thankfully, Mr Angry Man gives it a shove and I'm clear.
Damn. Those gym sessions must be doing something to me.
