cigarette out. ‘Okay.’
Dan shuts his laptop. ‘That’s that then.’
‘Great. Only one slight problem regarding tomorrow morning.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I don’t have any sports gear.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘Why would I? I don’t do any sport.’
Dan sighs, and looks at his watch. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘We should just about make it.’
‘Just about make what?’ I say, a little alarmed.
‘Late-night closing,’ he replies. ‘We’re going shopping.’
7.46 p.m.
We’re in Brighton Marina, where the shops stay open later than in Churchill Square, heading for Sports Shack, one of those large chains that’s always staffed by spotty adolescents, and frequented by people looking for the kind of running shoes that will only ever be used to run away from the police. We wander round for a few minutes, ignored by the assistants, until I accidentally knock over one of the trainer displays.
A spotty adolescent materializes instantly. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I need to buy some sports gear.’
‘Well,’ he says, disinterestedly, ‘you’ve come to the right place. For what sport?’
‘Er…I’m not actually sure.’
‘Fitness training,’ says Dan.
The assistant gives me a look that seems to say ‘about time too’. ‘Second aisle on the left.’
I follow Dan to the aforementioned section, where he walks up and down, passing me a selection of jogging pants and sweatshirts.
‘How do you know my size?’
Dan doesn’t say anything, but just points to the label, where I can quite clearly see the letters ‘X’ and ‘L’.
I pick up a sweatshirt with a hood, slip it on, and turn to Dan. ‘What do you think?’
He rolls his eyes. ‘Are you planning to sell drugs on the street corner?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Well, take that off then.’
Dan finds a pair of shorts, holds them up, looks round at me, then seems to think better of it, quickly putting them back on the rack.
‘Right,’ he says. ‘Trainers. Size?’
‘Nine and a half.’
He selects a pair of brightly coloured Nikes and throws them at me.
‘Catch!’
I, of course, drop them, and nearly do again when I see the price. ‘Ninety pounds? For a pair of trainers?’
‘If you’re going running, it’s important to have good shock absorption. That’s what you’re paying for.’
‘So I don’t damage my knees?’
Dan grins. ‘Or the pavement.’
After I’ve staggered to the cash desk, and handed over the best part of two hundred pounds, Dan and I pile back into his car and head home.
‘See you in the morning, then,’ he says, as he drops me off. ‘Eight o’clock?’
I grunt a reply, retrieve my bags from the boot of his car, and head inside, not relishing the prospect of the morning run, as even just carrying all my new gear is hard work. Once I’m sure Dan’s gone, I head out to the video store and rent Rocky III for inspiration, then on the way back buy a packet of cigarettes, a six-pack of lager, a large bar of Dairy Milk, and order a large meat-feast pizza with extra cheese. This is my farewell meal to the old Edward, my goodbye to all my old vices; and as I watch Stallone do his stuff I relish every mouthful, savour every drop, and appreciate each unhealthy puff, and when I’ve finished, I pack the rubbish into a large black bin liner, head off to bed, and sleep like a baby.
Tuesday 18th January
8 a.m.
Suffice to say, I’m not feeling my best after last night’s indulgences, and I’m sitting on my bed, trying to work out how to lace up my new running shoes, when Dan rings the doorbell. In an attempt to be colour coordinated, I’m wearing my new red tracksuit on top of a red sweatshirt, which strains a little over my stomach.
Dan snorts with laughter when he sees me. ‘Bloody hell, mate. All you’d need is a white beard and you’d pass as Santa.’
‘Ha ha.’
‘Don’t you mean “ho ho ho”?’
‘Dan, please, it’s too early.’
‘Sorry.’
While I pull my trainers
Dan shuts his laptop. ‘That’s that then.’
‘Great. Only one slight problem regarding tomorrow morning.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I don’t have any sports gear.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘Why would I? I don’t do any sport.’
Dan sighs, and looks at his watch. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘We should just about make it.’
‘Just about make what?’ I say, a little alarmed.
‘Late-night closing,’ he replies. ‘We’re going shopping.’
7.46 p.m.
We’re in Brighton Marina, where the shops stay open later than in Churchill Square, heading for Sports Shack, one of those large chains that’s always staffed by spotty adolescents, and frequented by people looking for the kind of running shoes that will only ever be used to run away from the police. We wander round for a few minutes, ignored by the assistants, until I accidentally knock over one of the trainer displays.
A spotty adolescent materializes instantly. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I need to buy some sports gear.’
‘Well,’ he says, disinterestedly, ‘you’ve come to the right place. For what sport?’
‘Er…I’m not actually sure.’
‘Fitness training,’ says Dan.
The assistant gives me a look that seems to say ‘about time too’. ‘Second aisle on the left.’
I follow Dan to the aforementioned section, where he walks up and down, passing me a selection of jogging pants and sweatshirts.
‘How do you know my size?’
Dan doesn’t say anything, but just points to the label, where I can quite clearly see the letters ‘X’ and ‘L’.
I pick up a sweatshirt with a hood, slip it on, and turn to Dan. ‘What do you think?’
He rolls his eyes. ‘Are you planning to sell drugs on the street corner?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Well, take that off then.’
Dan finds a pair of shorts, holds them up, looks round at me, then seems to think better of it, quickly putting them back on the rack.
‘Right,’ he says. ‘Trainers. Size?’
‘Nine and a half.’
He selects a pair of brightly coloured Nikes and throws them at me.
‘Catch!’
I, of course, drop them, and nearly do again when I see the price. ‘Ninety pounds? For a pair of trainers?’
‘If you’re going running, it’s important to have good shock absorption. That’s what you’re paying for.’
‘So I don’t damage my knees?’
Dan grins. ‘Or the pavement.’
After I’ve staggered to the cash desk, and handed over the best part of two hundred pounds, Dan and I pile back into his car and head home.
‘See you in the morning, then,’ he says, as he drops me off. ‘Eight o’clock?’
I grunt a reply, retrieve my bags from the boot of his car, and head inside, not relishing the prospect of the morning run, as even just carrying all my new gear is hard work. Once I’m sure Dan’s gone, I head out to the video store and rent Rocky III for inspiration, then on the way back buy a packet of cigarettes, a six-pack of lager, a large bar of Dairy Milk, and order a large meat-feast pizza with extra cheese. This is my farewell meal to the old Edward, my goodbye to all my old vices; and as I watch Stallone do his stuff I relish every mouthful, savour every drop, and appreciate each unhealthy puff, and when I’ve finished, I pack the rubbish into a large black bin liner, head off to bed, and sleep like a baby.
Tuesday 18th January
8 a.m.
Suffice to say, I’m not feeling my best after last night’s indulgences, and I’m sitting on my bed, trying to work out how to lace up my new running shoes, when Dan rings the doorbell. In an attempt to be colour coordinated, I’m wearing my new red tracksuit on top of a red sweatshirt, which strains a little over my stomach.
Dan snorts with laughter when he sees me. ‘Bloody hell, mate. All you’d need is a white beard and you’d pass as Santa.’
‘Ha ha.’
‘Don’t you mean “ho ho ho”?’
‘Dan, please, it’s too early.’
‘Sorry.’
While I pull my trainers
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