Running man
I couldn’t resist spreading a friends tale of shame from an ill fated morning jog. Whilst running merrily through one of the most posh Auckland suburbs Pablo* felt a rather disconcerting cramp form in his bowls signaling the dire need for a complete evacuation. Pablo firmly clenched and continued on, feeling a bit shaken and frantically looked for somewhere to dump his load. A short while later further cramping ensued and the jogging turned into a bizarre clenched/hunched walk. Just as his body gave it’s best impression of the Chernobyl power plant our copper-topped hero dived into the first available hiding place, number 222 Remuera Rd. As the two concrete walls and a closed garage door offered little shelter from the busy road just metres away, a vital decision had to be made, to give them the front or to give them the back.

Now under normal circumstances this would be a simple choice, to display ones rear in public may provide passers by with a touch of Sunday morning amusement, yet full frontal copper top would be far to much for our church going Sunday traffic to handle. But this, my dear reader, was not normal circumstances and as far as he knew the scene at the rear was absolute carnage. Pablo turned to face the road, took a deep breath and tore of his drawers, quick as a flash he cast his undergarments to the corner of the drive way knowing they had seen their last hoorah. He quickly inspected the damage to his outer layer, not insignificant by any stretch but better than what lay in a steaming pile amongst the golden autumn leaves less than three feet away. Sheepishly (and somewhat squishily) he jogged back out on the road, what more can he do but make for home and hope, hope that no-one notices that smear on his leg, plead that no-one looks down to his shoe to see a splattering of evidence. Traffic was much heavier now, numerous folk and their dogs are out walking oblivious to the terror that Pablo is going through. He darted from side to side of the road like a pinball as to come within 10 metres of another human or god forbid a K9 would mean certain damnation.

The journey home seems to take an age but by some freak of nature he makes it home unnoticed. Clothes, shoes included, undergo an intense hosing then are dumped into the wash, heavy cycle! After a very thorough shower fails to wash away the feeling of dirtiness, he washes his hands over and over again until the conclusion is reached that although hard to believe he must be clean. He brushes his teeth then washes his tooth-brush.

Finally he dives into the kitchen drawer and returns with a yellow plastic grocery bag. A new man, tarnished and broken, he sets off to collect what is his from old number 222.
* name has been thinly disguised in a rather feeble attempt to protect his identity.
Should I feel shame for laughing heartily at his misfortune? Ah well, next time maybe.
(toffee pop, Wed 30 Nov 2005, 16:39, Reply)