Bandwidth ground to a halt as everyone checked the times of their colleagues. Mr Timberland announced proudly that - while his times were on a downward trend - he had still managed better times than certain other gentlemen of his acquaintance. One of these acquaintances admitted to being pleased, and not, about his time, as he'd had two bouts of cramps on the route. Another colleague was simply pleased that he'd made it. Meanwhile, the shaven-legged youngster whose car had been stolen, posted better times than them all.
The Cow's manager hobbled into her office complaining of a twisted knee. Incurred through old age, he protested, rather than through the vigorous contact sports of one's youth. The Cow sat, injury-free, feeling left out. Even the long white dress, restricting her movement, didn't produce a Funny Walk. She tried to summon the energy to sulk.
A quiet tapping on her desk distracted her. She looked down to see Gramsci the spider hobbling along painfully. No Argus for him, so the Cow asked what the source of his injury was. "Cricket!" he replied, dolefully.
The Cow picked up the phone. Her office had been sprayed fairly recently, but clearly insects were untouched by the poison if the crickets were beating up on the spiders. "No, no," interjected Gramsci. "Not _that_ cricket! The match!" All those celebratory beers following the trouncing of the sheepshaggers had worn out all four pairs of legs.
The Cow sighed heavily. What was it with males and their sporting pursuits? Whatever happened to "a healthy mind in a healthy body"? Sport, she concluded sadly, was bad for one's health. As participant or spectator.