Pól Ó Lorcáin
Paul Larkin

Chroniclers are privileged to enter where they list, to come and go through keyholes, to ride upon the wind, to overcome in their soarings up and down, all obstacles of distance, time and place.
Charles Dickens - Barnaby Rudge, Chapter The Ninth

A Male Soldier’s Song.* Or - the blog as self flagellation


I went for a run (not a jog - a serious, eventually lung bursting run) around the Phoenix Park yesterday. It was not supposed to be lung bursting. The idea was for it to be walk - run - sprint combo as I ease back into the swing of things after a calf strain. Then a soldier turned up. Well, a soldier running at a fairly brisk pace, across the main road in the park and on the opposite footpath to me, so it became a race of sorts. He was in full battle uniform.

Shooting occasional sniper glances at him, I wasn’t going to let him get past me and he for his part obviously stepped up a gear in response to my acceleration. How to appear nonchalant whilst lengthening your stride and moving your arms more vigorously for traction?

For the next roughly four kilometres I had this green bobbing smudge in the corner of my right eye, then the smudge moved past me on his side of the road so I had to put the foot down again to overtake him. And so it went. I just knew it would end in, at the very least, metaphorical tears.
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