Weasel Words

Blog No. 7 of 17 (or thereabouts)

Today I saw a stoat.  It crossed in front of the car as I drove to a forest for a glorious and thoroughly enjoyable run with the dogs (look, I’m trying to sound positive about exercise, as psychologists tell us that by faking an attitude, you’ll rewire your brain to actually have that disposition, yada, yada, yada).  Speedy the Wonder Stoat was just about fast enough, but I can't help feeling with that ridiculously long body, an extra pair of legs somewhere in the middle would guarantee exclusion from roadkill statistics.

How did I know whether it was a stoat or a weasel?  No, stop … not that.  They’re neither totally different nor easily recognised, despite what chuckling, avuncular comb-overed folk may tell you*.  Uncle Google was far more helpful.  And fortunately this creature's near death experience meant I copped a good enough shufty to tell it was definitely a stoat.  It's the telltale black tail-tip see.   Unless the stoat is in winter mode and all-white, they're actually spectacularly weasely, and it is pretty hard to tell them apart at a distance.  There are other less immediately-obvious differences (lifespan, weight and so on) but I guess you'd be viewing Springwatch or Countryfile if you gave a flying squirrel about this sort of thing, so I'll leave our foray into mammal spotting there.

Here we are (well, me, it doesn’t look like you’re coming, even though you could  http://www.facebook.com/?ref=hp#!/event.php?eid=174564295907447)

10 days to go ‘til I wheeze-along-a-55-miles with Steven the UniCyclist as I undertake a tiny sliver of his ludicrous 20,000+ mile endeavour ‘UniCycle50’ http://www.unicycle50.com/  

Anyhoo, I’d took meself off for a nice (ha!) run in the woods.  It was cold and windy - an ideal cooling system for my over-exerted body as it tried to restore homeostasis under unaccustomed physical exertion.  Daily I'm discovering quite the damage a whole year of close to zero exercise can wreak on the human form, especially one with an addiction to croissants. 

So what happened a year ago?  I'd taken to rollerblading some of the way to work, but on spotting me from his office window, my inamorato banned me from doing that.  I must admit that, at the time, I was crossing Upper Regent Street weaving wobblily through four lanes of rush-hour traffic, so fair enough.  He explained it’s fine if I kill myself outright, he can move on with his life … but serious injury, rehab, wheelchair, etc. … he’s so not up for that.  Because morally, it would preclude the pursuit of cocaine and whores, which he's long-planned in the event of my demise.  Fair enough again. 
 
But it was the only exercise I was doing and enjoying at the time, so it totally foiled my ability to keep the perfect tension between appetite, croissants and rollerblading.  When you’re down to just appetite and croissants, it’s like crossing the beams in Ghostbusters, all hell breaks out … and now I’m like that blobby green ghost at the buffet … but pink … with legs. 
Legs that need to do a darn sight more cycling practice, damn it.    



*Just in case you're visitng from Betelgeuse:
What's the difference between a weasel and a stoat?
A weasel is weasily recognized, while a stoat is stoatally different.