Details Hiney, details. This tale needs FAR more flesh on the bones.
OK, I have just about come to terms with the SHAME.
It was a bright Summers Day and the YUMMY MUMMIES were out in force to cheer on their little darlings as they forced their slightly overweight bodies into various sacks and hoops whilst carrying small beanbags.
For the Dads, the Mums race is always a highlight.
There are the 40-something Tennis Mums, who are convinced they look GREAT in a tennis dress designed for a 20 year old. They shake their orange legs and the Dads watch the cellulite ripple slightly in the morning Sun.
There are the Earth Mothers who hitch their hand-stitched denim skirts up to reveal legs that are more blue than brown and who are sure that the bowl of super-charged muesli they WOLFED for breakfast will turn them into a finely-tuned athlete.
Finally there are the working Mums who don't really care about anything, as long as their rucksacks are full of little snacks for their darlings to NOSH on as they try and feel guilty for NEVER being there for the School run.
A bonus for the Dads is the Year 3 teacher who has tipped up in a tight tracksuit for the day and we realise that we should really pay far more attention to her at Parents Evening.
Then comes the Dad's race...........
Normally I don't give a shit about all that because you get the usual parade of KNOBS who think they are Linford Christie, David Beckham and George Clooney rolled into one. They STRUT around in a pathetic display of preening oneupmanship, desperately hoping to show people that beneath the slightly paunchy, middle-aged exterior, there beats the pulsing, finely-tuned heartbeat of a top ATHLETE.
On this occasion however, I allowed myself to be CONVINCED and lined up at the start. I did a few stretches but didn't want to give the impression that I was also one of the said midlife crisis men. I thought 'I've played a bit of football and am in decent shape for my age - this should be OK'.
The gun (more of a SHOUT really) went off, and I set off, pumping my firm thighs and slightly weedy arms in an attempt to be a WINNER.
About halfway down the track, I can only assume that a sniper was LURKING on the grassy knoll behind the Year 1 play area. I felt the bullets SLAP into the back of my legs and as the muscles went into SPASM, I lurched forward, much as you imagine Stephen Hawking would do if he rose up and ran. I thought, 'I HAVE to go on, for my CHILDREN' and shuffled down the track, across the line and then COLLAPSED in a spasticated heap on the floor.
Mrs Hiney came running up and I am sure she was stifling a GIGGLE. "Are you alright sweet?" she tittered. "No problem - I meant that" I replied, but then felt my vision going as the blood that I needed, rushed away from my brain to my legs, which were still twitching.
"You're a bit pale darling" said Justine as she helped me to a chair where I could try and regain my dignity. The one consolation was the concern showed by some of the more presentable Mums, but I could see the HILARITY lurking behind their smiles.
So, as I said, a f***ing NIGHTMARE.
@ Uncle Hiney.
Hiney comes up trumps again.
