I’d seen the chap in the green wellies way up ahead as I ran along the coast path this morning. And bit by bit, I’d gradually caught up with him.
“Morning,” he replied, stepping to one side of the path to allow me to overtake him.
He looked me up and down slowly, in the way that farming-types do.
I tried to adopt the air of someone for whom it’s perfectly normal to run around the Cornish countryside while caked completely in mud down the right hand side of my body, from my ear right down to my trainers.
“Yup,” I replied. “Lovely morning.”
He glanced again at the blood oozing out through the mud from the large graze on my knee and dribbling its way slowly down my shin.
“Bit slippery out.”
“So I noticed,” I grinned, and limped on my way.