Sunday, August 7

Sunday, August 7
It's been a difficult few weeks as a Londoner. The horrible inevitability of the tube bombings and the growing realisation that our unique multicultural fabric has ripped is an awful truth.
These are testing times.
But our parents and grandparents -- whether as children or soldiers both during and after WW2 or as poor economic migrants and desperate political refugees -- have surely faced worst.
We will prevail. We will keep it together. Because we have to -- even if the threat is as big as this article in today's Independent suggests.
These are also testing times for the fat jogger.
The Great South Run in October looms -- 10 miles around Portsmouth, which is four miles more than I've ever done. And all that effort I put in last year to lose some weight has gone up in smoke -- which, incidentally, I still do whenever I have pint in hand.
Blame it on the buffet -- the hotel buffet.
After a two week family holiday in a relatively safe country -- Zambia -- I'm back up to 16 and a half stones.
Depressed? No, not really. That's just the way it is.
In Zambia the Nyanja people from the east of the country have a word for it -- "Madala."
"Hey Madala, look at my work, I make you a good price, make me some business please" was a typical cry that rang after me in the crafts markets of Livingstone and Lusaka.
It means "big man" and sometimes I would be referred to as just that --"big man". But we all know it really means "fatso."
Don't get me wrong; there was no malice involved. Zambians are very friendly people and we had a great time there. I wouldn't hesitate to go back.
It's just how it is.
Maybe it's time to consider the 'L' word.