Neighbourhood couldn’t give a shit, more like.
My outing today was planned as the same 6 mile jog I executed last week but with added intervals.
Not looking forward to these over shorter runs, I was apprehensive to commit to what distance/spread I should aim for, and a sporadic start included isolated sprints of a couple of tenths of a mile followed by recoveries. A sustained push for half a mile up to 1.5 miles allowed me to recover on a flat section, the next down being filthy and on the narrowest of lanes around Acrise.
At two miles, the run changed. Several sheep were on the road. My approach made them scatter, three trying to get through the broken fence back into the field (behind the hedge; I wasn’t about to try to help them), two simply ran in circles making funny noises before butting the fence next to the gate in a attempt to get home. So I stopped, forgot to pause the Garmin (always useful to see some 10 minute miles when trying to assess if you’re getting faster!), did my best open the gate and herd the sheep through, successfully repatriating two before more became visible from the road behind me. So I decided I’d jog back to the farm I’d passed and ask if they owned, or even knew who owned, the sheep.
The place on the left greeted my enquiry with a gruff “I couldn’t care less. They’re not mine”. Upon enquiry about whether they might be the place opposite, the response “Couldn’t care. I think he’s just shot one of my doves, the bastard!” encouraged me to jog away.
The place opposite was no better. Knocking the open door (complete with keys hanging in the lock, including the key to the new VW Golf that was sat in the drive attached. Trusting folk, these gruff farmers), no response except for being greeted by the friendly Collie lead me to look around the back where the owner came and, upon my enquiry about whether the sheep were theirs or who I might contact to alert them to the wandering nature of the beasts, again a response of “they’re not ours. Don’t think I’ve got the number of the owner. They don’t live close”.
I thought isolated rural folk might at least take an interest in looking out for each other. Obviously not. The fact that the bloke who was accused of shooting the dove sighted his gun on me as I jogged past the clearing he was shooting in before pulling the trigger to make a clearly audible firing pin strike (I presume in order to prevent me taking a further interest in their activities), makes me glad that my preconceptions of the cunts who live around Hawkinge are truer than I care to accept.
Upon return to Paddlesworth and upon seeing two people tending their verge, my similar enquiry about knowing who’s sheep they might be (by now I was a mile from the beasts, but thought I’d try one last time), I finally got a positive reaction and the lady picked up her phone to at least see if she had the number. She didn’t, but started calling a man who did.
Paddlesworth – the village sign states “Highest Church, lowest steeple, poorest parish, fewest people”. And over 75% of them are oxygen thieves.
So an optimistic outing turned into a farce of a run. 5.5 miles, maybe, but again of poor quality and with my opinion of the human race lowered to disappointingly low standards. I hated everyone before. I hate them because they’re willfully nasty as well as everything else, now.
Juneathon 2013. Not going well.