By way of continuing a theme, or rather, a lament, why is it that when one becomes an Old, one retains one's upper body strength but loses any semblance of suppleness and speed?
A trip to Newlyn gym this afternoon yielded a warm glow after I did eight rounds on the heavy bag without breaking a sweat. That's not true, I was drenched in sweat, people stared at me afterwards and I was shunned and avoided on the streets and in Tesco and in my car. But that aside, and it is an aside, the point is this: I wasn't tired. I felt fine. I could have done a few more rounds. No sweat, or lots of sweat, it's all the same, I was almost not Old. I could kid myself I was Young.
But football is a different kettle of fish. Perhaps it's also a different ball game. As is surfing, but it is not a kettle of fish, of any kind, different or the same. These two pursuits produce more by way of despair than elation for the unarguable fact that I am old and slow and knackered. Old old old. Slow slow slow. Sweaty sweaty sweaty. My legs have gone, I don't know where or why, they won't come back, they think it's all over and it is.