School sports day
I would have been about six. Not fat, but a little portly and far more inclined to read a book than exert myself like some sort of oik. This did not endear me to those trying to teach me pe and I quickly gained the tag, not entirely unfairly, 'not very good at sport' that would stick with me for the rest of my educational career (although I'm a strong swimmer and aces at table tennis - football and rugby not so much).

So a slightly overcast but not intemperate summer's day dawns and I toddle off to school somewhat underwhelmed at the prospect of a day doing nothing other than short bursts of sport followed by long, long stretches of having to watch other people do sport better than me. Much like, I would imagine, the ugliest guy at a swinger's party (substituting sport for fucking, obviously. I didn't do a lot of either at age six).

I volunteer for some sort of running event seeing as at least it doesn't involve anything complicated and it will be over relatively quickly. So, time drags its feet until eventually it's my go. I find myself on the starting line trying to adopt the same starting pose as my competitors - Right knee bent, left arm up, like a freeze frame of a man mid-sprint, certain in the knowledge that a) this is bound to make you run faster and b) you also look damn cool. Silence and eager anticipation falls over the crowd, except for the slightly grubby looking girl crying out as the curly haired psycho boy has just hit her in the arm. There is no starter's gun, I guess because it's more difficult to run when your shorts are soaked with terrified weewee, but on the shout of go we launch ourselves down the track with furious pace and aplomb.

I should point out at this point that while I would not describe myself as a sports day enthusiast, I do have a strong aversion to losing if I can possibly not, and so it is with genuine determination I pound down the track, plimsolls practically aflame, faster than a rocket or the biker mice from mars. An early spring growth spurt had left me taller than most of my cohorts, and I make full advantage of it. I glance to my left - no one in sight. With guarded optimism, I check my right. Vacant. I'm winning! I'm actually winning! At sport! Elation courses through me like a forest fire and I'm spurred to quicken the pace even further. I'm miles ahead! This is great!

Driven crazy by glory, I fail to notice the line of children waiting at the finish line that would otherwise have jarred my memory... no, I am a victor, my opponents vanquished. I think of nothing other than the adulation of the crowd. As such it takes a few seconds to sink in that far from adulation, I am in fact being shouted at urgently and a small girl is making to punch me on the arm to draw my attention. The presence of a coloured steel cylinder in my hand makes itself re-known and it all comes flooding back. Ah.

Despite my blisteringly fast first leg, my team went on to lose the relay and I was deeply unpopular until a dog wandered into the school grounds and the sheer excitement pushed the sorry affair from everyone's mind.
(WarneMarsh My priority for frivolity begets quality jollity, Fri 20 Nov 2009, 11:09, Reply)