Sausages

I seem to have developed a few lingering associations of late. Some good, some funny, some bad. Today they turned odd.

Since Wednesday, when Michael (my fellow site manager) serenaded me in the site office with a rendition of “The only way is up” by Yazz (I think serenaded is the nasty term for it…I was changing in the office for my run; he parked at the bottom of the stairs and turned his stereo up to daft volume, with said song blaring, and waited until I came out to throw things at him before wheelspinning off to the delight of Will, our assistant, who was again left wondering if Michael is in fact 30 or really just a 12 year old in an adult body) it’s been stuck in my mind on rotation, annoying the hell out of me.

Upon return from work on Friday (a late return, caused by a visit to the pub), the house had the aroma of burned things about it. This was traced to the toaster but, as these things do, everytime I turned it on since, it has re- burnt. Intentions to clean it out have been forgotten each time with the thought that “I’ll do it when it’s cool to avoid damaging the elements” turns into “bugger, I forgot to clean that out again” next time it’s used and causes the smell.

Then today, Cathy had a sausage and egg sandwich for lunch. The aroma was rather pleasant but, having had my lunch then gone out on the motorbike and returned, the aroma was still in the house. I changed quickly, put the flour and stuff in the bread machine for a pizza base and pulled on my running shoes to run into town and collect Cathy’s bike from yesterday when, upon leaving the house and turning into the next road, I could smell sausages again. They weren’t following me, I hadn’t been marinaded in the flavour, it simply turned out a barbecue was carried on the wind all the way down the road, but it alerted me to habits for long enough to make me worried my life will descend into a blur of repetition if this carries on.

The run itself was unremarkable. Shorter than of late to allow for two long ish runs in the week (5 miles from the motorbike shop when I drop it off for a service, 5 miles back to the shop when I collect it), but a useful outing. My buttocks hurt from effectively powerlifting the flatbed of a 1983 Ford Transit a few too many times yesterday, so that made me weary beforwe I set off, but for everything else it seemed dull.

And I like dull – it means no pain, no niggles and a happy jogger. Long may it continue.

Without Yazz. Or anything by Cornershop getting into my head at breakfast, come to that. I had enough of that last week.

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