I guess in light of my ex, Crazy Will, I’m reassessing my definition of deal breakers.
So when Wes asked if I wanted to watch a mate of his run the marathon I thought, “Meh, why not?”
To be fair, once the hideous intimacy of Sneezegate was laughed nervously away, we had a good time on that first date.
Wes is kind of hilarious.
And clear all that bacteria off his face, he’d be pretty hunky.
So I figured he deserved a second chance – I know I’d want to be given one (that’s what she said).
The only snag was his choice of date.
I know it makes me a bad person but I hate the marathon.
The endless keenos, the wacky costumes, the road closures . . . this miserable cow normally stays well clear.
But Wes doesn’t know that.
So we meet near Tower Bridge to watch his mate Paul pace by in the heat.
My first mistake was wearing wedges.
For some reason I’d focused more on the lunch afterwards than the bit where we stood along the route with a million cheering, sweaty tourists.
My cramped toes telegraph their distress.
After ten minutes someone stands on them.
Wes is oblivious to my misery.
Beaming, he turns to me and says: “Isn’t this amazing?”
“Yeah,” I reply. Then I upgrade it to: “Yes, it really is.”
Except it’s not amazing, it’s the absolute worst.
My T-shirt is sticking to my back, my feet are killing me, I’m premenstrual and a woman with a pushchair behind me keeps banging it into my ankles.
Bump, bump, bump.
Through gritted teeth, I try to tell Wes how moving watching all these determined people is.
He agrees, says he’s coming every year and might even take part himself next year.
“Me too,” I say, clearly delirious from the heat.
My face is starting to burn because I’m not wearing suncream so my cheeks are turning as red as my crippled toes.
Then those effing pushchair wheels scuff my ankles again.
At that point, I break.
Swivelling round, I snap: “Look, will you just f*** off!”
But Pushchair Mum has moved. And I’ve just sworn at a teenage boy in a wheelchair instead.
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