This week, I was nearing the end of my run when I came across a member of the opposite gender.
Now, ladies and gents, there is attractive and then there is God On Earth. This specimen was included in the latter category. He was seemingly chiselled from the rock of physical perfection.
I always tend to despair when such encounters occur as, after forty-five minutes of running, I’m never looking my best.
This was no exception. It had, as usual, been raining. My hair was plastered to my head. Dirt had somehow splashed from the ground into my face. I looked like a drowned rat that had been dragged through a mud pit before having several tonnes of putrid lake water poured on top of its head.
When a lady considers taking up running, she is often allured by pictures such as this:
I hate to break it to any prospective female joggers, but this is an unrealistic representation of women when they run. It is based off the presumption that:
A) Women do not possess functioning sweat glands.
B) The weather is in a perpetual state of nicety.
Now this, I feel, is a more realistic representation of what a woman can expect to look like after a considerable period of running:
I, however, had taken dishevelled to the next level and probably resembled something akin to the next picture:
And, to cap it off, this man, this image of condensed physical perfection, had been placed before me, seemingly to heighten my own tragic appearance. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but stare. In fact, my vision was so occupied by this eighth wonder of the world that I tripped. Of course, I tripped. Clumsiness runs in my family. It is a matter of genetics. I inherited this unfortunate quality from my mother, who once managed to fall over while getting into a hot tub, displacing the majority of the enclosed water in the process.
Through a series of several dramatic physical manoeuvres (e.g. vigorous arm waving), I managed to regain my balance and avoid a complete face plant scenario. In some deluded part of my mind, I indulged in the fairy-tale fantasy that the man would rush to my aid, scooping me into his arms and carrying me over to his valiant horse, which, of course, would magically appear, seemingly from nowhere.
However, this is the twenty-first century and, as a result, no such miracle occurred.
He looked over. He laughed. He walked on. 
All of the Interesting Things I See When Running 