February 14th

SPECIALIST sports shops are to me what the lingerie department is to my boyfriend – needless embarrassments which plainly should be avoided at all costs.
Just like any bashful man baby-stepping into a world of lace, cups and under wiring, I know I’m leaving shame-faced with no money and something I don’t want.
We all know how it works – these shops have secret alarms invisible to the naked eye. Just like the knickers section might have a ‘perv’ spotlight loitering above a well-meaning man - the sports section equivalent points all eyes my way.
And even if I persevere rather than racing to the door my panicked eyes will only meet misery, or as it is otherwise known, lycra.
Once, when I was more naïve, I built up the guts to squeeze into the prescribed runner’s kit of black lycra t-shirt and shorts.
I thought a Kelly Holme’s figure would look back at me – encouraging me for the task ahead, sadly only Baby Shamu was in.
Now I run on the Thames embankment, so as you can imagine that is a case of mistaken identity best avoided.
The other problem is, of course, the jargon. These clothes “wick” away sweat – that isn’t a verb I have ever come across and frankly raises my suspicion.
I admit no vast understanding of physics, but how can a top keep me “warm against the elements but cool against the heat of running”?
And then, just as men know when they smuggle smalls to the check out, out comes the sales assistant with the technical hitch.
She will scan and scan and type in the code, but all the time just delaying that inevitable Tannoy announcement: “Can someone get me another pair of these extra sweat-resistant socks with built in athletes foot and verruca treatment for this lady’s hobbit feet?”
This being Valentine’s week, my experiences will give me greater sympathy for the underwear-weary man. When he looks my way he will get a sympathetic smile, I just hope that pervert alarm’s always wrong.