Fat Mac dropped his mobile phone in his pint of beer, and it doesn’t work anymore. He hasn’t fixed his doorbell, even though it’s been broken for years. But he sometimes answers his fixed line, when he’s not asleep in the bath, so I was able to arrange a short run with him today.
At first, he wsn’t keen, because he’d seen a cloud in the sky, but eventually we ran along the road to Ravelston. He has to keep to the same route, as he has a fear of getting lost.
I look on these runs rather like a social service, and at least it gets him out of his flat for some fresh air. It’s not as if there’s much conversation, as he’s always too short of breath to say more than a few words right at the start.