Sympathy for the sausage

Sausages: as tempting to me as women are to Tiger Woods

Over the past month I didn’t run much. I was working at a summer camp teaching English and I found that my life was taken up by a crusade to straighten out the garbled, warped English spoken by Russian teenagers. “No Sergiy, it’s not a shit of paper, it’s a sheet … it’s it, not eat Sergiy … I said take a seat, not take a …” It was my mission to right these wrongs and make sure that none of my students would ever be punched in the face again for asking directions to the nearest bitch.

My physical condition has, in general, deteriorated greatly in this period. This is primarily due to adopting a diet more suitable for a professional wrestler than an English teacher. Every day I would shovel vast quantities of pasta, potatoes, chips, sausages and hamburgers down my throat. This period of reckless overeating was caused by two factors:

  1. Eating at a free canteen every day and being offered endless supplies of carbohydrates is like being in some kind of gastronomic version of the Milgram experiment. If a man with a ladle tells you (it’s not an offer when a big f**k-off spoon enters into the equation) to combine chips and pasta on a single plate then who are you to disagree? You must yield, you have no other choice.  
  2. I’m an arsehole. At the end of every lesson I would test my students on the day’s vocabulary. To make things interesting I often instructed them that for every wrong answer they produced I would confiscate a fraction of their evening meal. This, of course, was said in jest. However, the joke seemed to be lost in translation and before I knew it I was being offered percentages of jelly and quarters of fish fingers by stoic looking Russian children.

As a result I’ve put on a bit of weight.

Let me explain what this means for me though. I’m skinny. I’ve always been skinny, straight up and down, a bit of a beanpole. But that’s worse in a way. When I do put on weight it all seems to mob around my stomach, making me look like a stickman trying to shoplift a half deflated beach ball.

Feldging gut starting to become apparent (my t-shirt isn't flapping in the wind)

None of this has been good for my running. If my quest to get fit was a snakes and ladders game I would definitely have slid down a few squares over the past month. I tried to put in a few miles today and after a long stretch up a hill my leg muscles seemed to turn to ash. “No more,” they wailed, “we can’t support your sausage habit any longer!”

It’s going to be a long road back from this.