The Texan Stomp

The big day finally arrived last Sunday and I ended up running alone. My psychiatrist friend pulled out of the race again and I had no time to meet KLAAG before the race (yes, I had trouble again queuing for the toilets). All in all in went very well, and I spotted my daughter twice in the crowd as I raced round and I managed to complete the full thirteen (count 'em) miles in exactly two hours. Saw very few novelty runners, although the local news inevitably made it look as if the marathon was made up entirely of wacky racers.

Met KLAAG for a meal the night before. I was a sober affair, although we allowed ourselves a glass of wine each. Didn't really get much news from him, other than the fact that he had recently bought 'Exile on main Street' by the Stones.

Spend the rest of the week trying to rest, although we had our first line dancing class on Wednesday. I can't even remember how we got into this one, and as we were driving there in a panic (late babysitter, even though she only lives next door), I didn't think about it at all until we walked into the hall. There we were greeted by a neat square of nine able line dancers, and we were immediately thrown into learning three different dances in an hour. The nimble teacher kept crying ''right, right and stomp!'' as we tried to keep up.

By the end of the session, dripping with sweat, those who wanted to were invited to partake in the 'fast' version of the third dance to something from Shania Twain. I decided to go for it, and leapt around like something from a silent movie, a Keystone Cop on acid.

Filling in our forms on the way out (it had all been arranged over the phone or internet or something) we were invited to write down our reasons for joining the class. With a shaky hand, I wrote 'for exercise. And to learn how to dance'. I will have forgotten it by next week, although I did attempt a couple of steps when cleaning the kitchen this morning.

Right, right...