I am Mudd in the Financial Times. After yesterday, by name and by nature. A trainer of the shoe variety and myself parted sweet company en route, midseas, fathoms deep within the gloop of a Kentish cross-country run mire.
I considered continuing. The few runners in the Eridge 10 mile run between myself and the back marker (traditionally the last five home are shot, barbecued and served to the winners) were hottish on my heels, albeit at virtual walking pace, and perhaps I could dispense with my B trainer too, and run home besocked, thus avoiding the hideous embarrassment of the barbecued-in-waiting splashing past me as I levered the offending item from the abyss.
But lever I did. It is at times like this I often think of crosswords. It’s payback time for the torturer. Safe within my home office I plan my most devious attacks on the defenceless. The victims cannot find me, in my cowardice. And yet sometimes I think they know who I am. Those who tread on my toes in the street, cut me up on the road, splash Mudd up my nostrils as I stoop to be conquered.
As a crossword setter I must aim to lose gracefully. If the solver has not won, I need to be more generous to you.
Yesterday I lost – yes, in style, but without grace. To those who defeat me, I salute you. Do pass the wet wipes.