Night of 23rd April 2010

In the meeting room I find myself on the same side as my ex-boss. There is the same animosity between us, and I am trying to tread carefully. It comes up that I'm moving on, and I nervously wait for his reaction.

He says to me "so Man City eh" (as opposed to Man Utd., which is presumably how I saw where I was). And I have to correct him—it's not the same city, or a nearby place, I'm going to, I'm going very far away. This seems to stun him a little. He pats me on the back, in a hollow way.

On the bus there is a loudmouthed black-person. He has a Japanese girlfriend/partner (like me) and brashly speaks in Japanese mixed with English. I find his attention seeking, show-offery annoying and wish him nothing but ill. But, wouldn't you know it, he's drawn to me and keeps making conversation. I'm sat with my friend, and he joins us. He's impressive—tall, trim, he looks just like Hugo Rodallega of Wigan Athletic.

We're going to the same hotel, and by a twist of fate, end up in the same room. I learn that he's an athlete, here for a meet—and secretly wish he fails spectacularly, whilst cowardly offering passive encouragement and support.

I see him, the next morning, strewn on the bed in a yellow Bruce Lee jumpsuit; covered in sweat (like the Beast), or water, and looking sick. I'm part happy, part concerned.

Outside we, my friend and I, see the track. It's a grass running track, like those at school, and I'm astonished at how long a sprinting straight is—I run occasionally in waking life, and know I'd never make it to the end at full tilt; and even at a modest canter would be exhausted by the finish line. This length, coupled with the black's bad state, convinces me he has no chance whatsoever.

The race is on, though they seem to be running a 400m, coming round the bend on the opposite side of the track to us, and sure enough he's falling behind. Resigned, I think "I knew it." But at this point he begins pulling forward, surging with some strength; I'm stunned as to where this power has come from. He continues to pull forward, looking ever more comfortable and hubristically sure of his victory. So sure, he pulls out a bottle of water while still mid-race and drinks then totes it in the air. A winning pose while the race is still being run. It's a photo-finish, yet paradoxically he is the clear winner.

I congratulate him. Not fully won over - I'm still jealous that his brash, loud, manner was shown to be better - but impressed none the less. I wake.