The Porkiness of the Long-Distance Runner

During my last visit back to the Shire, Dom noted that I had changed from being plain-and-simple “Liam” to “Porky Liam.” Much as I like the idea of this as my superhero alter-ego, I don’t fancy it as my normal human state.

There are plenty of things to blame my spare tyre on: American sized portions and the fact that as a child I had to clear my plate before leaving the table; the cold, cold winter; the six months forced unemployment that kept me indoors. Oh, there are many sad, pallid, bloated excuses I can make for my increasing girth, none of which cut the mustard – or my weight.

Courtney has noticed a similar ballooning around her waistline, which started with my arrival and her switch away from a toast-only diet. Now, with the arrival of summer, and the moderate certainty we’ll be able to leave the house without getting snowed on, she has decided we’re to start running off the fat. Tonight I expect we’ll raid the wardrobe to find a semblance of a jogging outfit for me. I don’t do sports clothing, so the results should be interesting, and probably bloggable.

But right now it’s time for lunch. A 14″ Italian sub sandwich with lettuce, black olives, Swiss cheese, spicy mustard and hot peppers from Wegmans should just about sort me out…