Sunday 28 March

The Liverpool half-marathon ends mercifully: a decent stretch of exposed Mersey sloppy-kissing us towards the finishing line after several sunlit laps of Sefton Park during which my breath and boyhood anecdotes are both in danger of running out, to Licky’s simultaneous worry and relief. I record a time of just over two hours, Licky is four minutes behind me; PJ runs here for army charities, having swapped his performance-enhancing backpack and slinky running leggings for a Busby and some bell-bottoms, while ‘over the border’ Astrid is powering around the Wilmslow course. Yet it’s as refreshing as the sometime sea breeze to report that all of our training paid off and we finish with similar times, so equating the incredulous expectations of our sofa-softened friends to monies raised.

With customary anti-authoritarianism a local scouseman has extended our stay here by loaning us his residential parking pass to paste upon Licky’s horse and carriage. Warming down in a nearby hostelry I’m surprised to spy Swarthy Erick at the bar, accompanied by someone who looks just like yours truly, but who you suspect might have finished the race in 1:59, such is his slim advantage in years and the additional confidence naturally bestowed upon those with slightly more hair than me. Yes, that’s right – it’s Erick’s new companion, Patterson – someone who flatters to deceive in all the right ways; for who could resist a man of such overlapping charms?

‘Ahoy Erick,’ I offer up, along with a frothing beer, ‘do the race n’ all did thee?’

Surprisingly, his reaction isn’t that expected of one so near and dear. Before acknowledging us he seems keen to hide some paperwork beneath their table, and I can only imagine that this is evidence of a shockingly bad finish time.

‘Ah Batson – you know Patterson,’ he manages.

‘And what the Dickens happened to you two?’ I enquire, seeing now that both have cuts and bruises around their faces.

‘Pantomime horse trick, came a cropper,’ explains Patterson hurriedly.

‘I see,’ I say, though I don’t particularly.

‘Any clues on who stole the Sludger yet?’ Erick enquires, as we advance the session.

‘An out-of-towner, so reckons Porthole,’ I confide, ‘and I have my eye upon a certain Rendell Pifflewax.’

‘Good, good,’ and Swarthy seems to brighten, ‘let’s get another round in then.’