22) Finding Homeless Friend Love At The Marathon
May 15, 2007
Christmas: Every year: My parents House: Midnight
You are a fly on the wall (Don’t worry everyone is far too taxidermied with turkey and fisted by festive fodder to be bothered to get up and swat you)
You can hear the Carrs Water Biscuits whimper under the weight of butter and Mature farmhouse Cheddar. You can hear the oceanic roar of the dishwater. And you can hear the women of the family discussing diet and fitness regimes for the New Year as they open another bottle of port and unwrap the stilton. It is about this moment that someone always says,
“Why don’t we train for the London Marathon? Ooo Luce can you push the Baileys ice cream down here I’m too stuffed to move?”
For some reason we forget that collectively we are about as cardiovascular as a cadaver and we pledge to do the marathon.
This year I returned home after Christmas with my bulbous belly and made the fatal error of confiding this pledge to Live In Ex Boyfriend. He made me go for a run in Regents Park. People who witnessed it probably still talk about the time that fit bloke sped around the park with that wheezing, pleading woman following 10 yards behind him. Every so often I would stop and pant, “I can’t go on. It hurts. I can’t breathe” and Live In Ex Boyfriend would run back to me and say, “ok we’ll stop and do some stretching. Gotta stretch Luce.” Then he would lie me on my sweaty back on the cold pavement, pick a leg up and pull it about until I screamed. When we eventually got home Live In Ex Boyfriend was barely clammy. I was so red and wet I looked like a glistening hog on spit. I was just thinking how nice a bath with a gin and tonic would be when he said, “now the abs,” and made me do a billion crunches on the kitchen floor with him. We finished and I lay whimpering unable to move again. He sprung up and said “thanks for that Luce that was a good warm-up, I’m off to the gym now.”
It was then I realised that running was crap.
However a few weeks ago I was on the bus in the Westend. It was a usual bus journey. Teenagers on the back seat were playing bad hip-hop on a mobile phone. The bus was travelling slower than an empty crisp packet on the pavement. But I was in Heaven. The reason being a tanned, 6 foot 2 Adonis with sandy hair and peculiarly arousing calves. And he was running, nay, cantering along Gower Street. And he was nimble too as he deftly dodged legions of men trying to foist free evening newspapers upon him. He had taken the word fit to a penthouse floor of unparalleled fitness.
I realised then and there that fit men ran. If I was to find love for my friends we must go running. I called Homeless Friend,
“AhhhhhhhhhhOhmyGodOhmyGodfitmenrunningwehavetorunhaveyougotanytrainers” I hyperventilated.
“Breathe Luce.” She helpfully reminded me.
“We need to go running and I’ll find you love.” I proudly told her feeling like a combination of Mother Teresa and Cilla Black.
“Luce, I can’t run with my boobs.”
I hadn’t considered this set back. Homeless Friend has breasts like boulders.
“ohmygodivegotitivegotit!!” I squeal again.
“Breathe, Luce.” She sighs.
“We can watch the London Marathon! No running involved” I inform her thrilled.
Marathon day
It’s very hot. It doesn’t feel like London. It feels like Dubai. Homeless Friend is alright though as I’ve instructed her to wear very little to distract the runners. A short denim skirt, a tight bright pink vest, and little wedgie sandals. She’s grumbling a lot because today she is at my mercy. I have told her that I am Mistress Lucy and I must be obeyed. We are based at The Embankment for intense scoping. The runners are so close we can touch them. We don’t touch them but we do smell them. It’s good. The smell of man sweat on scorched skin is my second favourite smell. My first is bacon frying. Mistress Lucy has given Homeless Friend her rules.
1) Eyes must not deviate from the runners.
2) Vocal encouragement must be screamed at sexy male runners.
3) A nod must be given to Mistress Lucy when the perfect specimen has been spotted.
4) Once the nod has been given. We peg it to the finish to see him come through the line. Then we stalk him and she has to engage him in conversation.
Seamless.
Homeless Friend is being a model submissive. She is shouting “Come on Gorgeous!!” or “Come on you fit bastard” repeatedly and at impressive volume. I am not very good at being the dominant master of ceremonies as I have a face like a pug dog in pain and am in tears. I had not expected the marathon to be so emotional. I’m not sure I can cope. It’s like watching a Beaches and Watership Down double bill for hours. All these people have trained for months to do this incredible task for a charity which is close to their heart. They might have lost a loved one through a disease and are now running 26 miles in order to raise money for important research into the disease. All their friends and family are here proudly cheering them on. It is unfettered goodwill. I look at everyone’s smiling cheering faces. The closest I’ve ever come to an experience like this was a summer festival when everyone appeared to be on very good ‘e.’
“It’s so beautiful.” I hiccup. Homeless Friend looks at me. Her face drops suddenly like a breast out of a bra.
“Jesus what’s up with you?”
“Get back to the runners.” I blubber.
“How can I pull when you’re like that? Let’s go to that pub and see if we can calm you down!” she screeches and leads the way to a pub on a boat. I am at that point where my sobs are just high pitched hiccups. I trail behind her like a toddler on an E number comedown.
Luckily we can still watch the runners. It’s just that now we are a bit further away and Homeless Friend has to shout a bit louder. She starts to get hoarse.
It’s really hot now. It’s like being in Dubai, in a flaming building, inside a fondu.
“I’ve got to take my bra off. Chaffing.” She says with a voice like a chainsaw on its last legs. Then she does a quick impression of an armless man body popping before putting her bra in her handbag.
We stand for the duration of a bottle of Rose. Me crying and smiling and Homeless Friend huskily screaming at virile men. There has been no nod yet. Suddenly Homeless Friend clasps my arm. She is rigid save for a slight breast wobble.
“Wow, check out red shorts.” She croaks. I check out red shorts. Red shorts is clearly a member of the phenomenally fit society. A founder member. The chairman. Red shorts is perfect.
“Go on red shorts.” She wheezes. Her voice is like a small gnat’s dying rasps. She starts to panic. She attempts to shout again. Nothing comes out of her mouth except a tiny bit of spit.
“Go on red shorts.” I scream with my actress foghorn and red shorts looks up at me as he’s running. Out of the corner of my eye I see Homeless Friend lift her T-shirt up to reveal her breasts. I turn to face her. She blushes like a smacked bottom and quickly pulls her T-shirt down.
“I can’t believe you did that.”
“Neither can I!” she mouths.
“Do you want to peg it to the finish?”
She shakes her head sadly. So I ask the three questions a distressed friend always needs to hear.
1)“Another bottle of Rose?” (she nods)
2)“Are you hungry?” (she nods)
3)“Fish and chips or something equally fattening?” (she nods)
After the pate and fish and chips and on the third bottle of Rose. I am just undoing my fly when Homeless Friend taps me on the arm,
“Shall we do it next year?”
“Yeah, I promise not to cry if you promise not to show your boobs.”
“No I mean lets RUN it next year? Oh grab that waiter and order us one crumble and one sticky toffee pudding for dessert!”
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25) Guardian Soulmates Online