Slim Slow Slider
With a hangover to beat the band oompapahoomp and a tartan ribbon in my pony tail I head out for the christmas sprint along my favourite run in the world. Better even than a Funchal promenade or timing yourself to the church door in Vigo. Better still than Freemantles railway tracks or whooshing past the rushes to Ladys Mile in Limassol. There isnt a sinner about except for the cows and four and twenty blackbirds. Good gravy, a handsome Billy Goat!* Across the road a clatter of Wilhemena goats totter about in their high heeled hoofs hoping to catch his eye. Even a snail takes advantage of the quiet and is marching across the road. I give him a hand and pop him on the verge. As I run off it occurs to me that I didn't ask which way he was heading and I might have just put him back to his point of departure.
My parents grew up streets away from each other in Belfast. They met when they were fourteen. From her bedroom window she'd watch him slide down the middle of her street on his way to the dance. She wasnt allowed to go to the Plaza or slip about in the snow under street lamps. She must have made it to the dance eventually because we're all here. Our goose is standing when I get back, is he done? Your goose is as good as mine. Time for a hair of the goat that nipped me.
*Erratum: Sources have since revealed that our Billy Goat is in fact a Jacobs Sheep. May as well be hung for a sheep as a goat. Townies eh.