So, maybe it's me. Maybe I'm, like, the fastest person on the planet. Built for speed. Racing snake. Speedy Gonzales. But I doubt it.
No matter where I went with brother at the weekend, it was always at half speed. Half speed and accompanied by constant cries of 'slow down, for fuck's sake'. Nice.
I was almost constantly ten feet ahead of him, then stopping, waiting for him to catch up, then immediately ten feet ahead again. He told me to stop running at one stage.
And I'd tried really hard. Not only had I walked really slowly, but I'd also caught the métro when I'd normally walk, and I'd thought about where we were going and planned things near to métro stations. We'd changed trains at the smaller métro stations to avoid long walks between trains and I'd even offered a taxi at one point.
I always sought out the station exits with escalators rather than stairs and I made sure that, once in the Louvre, we took the shortest route possible to the Mona Lisa.
There were regular coffee stops, and plenty of cake shops along the route. I made sure blood sugar levels remained constant, and that toilet breaks were possible.
I was a good host.
I was in the kitchen and could hear my brother in the guest bedroom. He was talking on the phone to his wife.
"You might not recognise me when I get home", he said to her. "He's walked me so far that I've lost five kilos and I'm four inches shorter than when I left. I'm sure he's just doing it to show me how unfit I am".
Next time, we'll do it at my pace.
We'll soon see how that goes down.