I've been meaning to tell you how, apropos of my ongoing lunatic behaviour(s), I recently climbed up Knox mountain twice. It was a nice day, and it just seemed to be the right thing to do. I'm sure Hitler and other despots were guided by this same lack of foresight, but I was considering athletic achievement and not Poland, so lighten up.

I had trudged up the first time in my usual delicate manner, scattering birds, people and other wildlife with my delicate, size 16 clod-stomping footwear.

Upon reaching the summit, once the other climbers had stopped screaming at the sight of me spraying sweat like a garden sprinkler, I realized I felt pretty good. No major arteries had burst in my chest cavity for once, spraying around like an unattended fire hose, so the idea of doing it again just seemed to take hold. (Those with a good memory may recall how I once climbed up Grouse Grind 5 times in one day, having employed a similar lack of rationality).

Got to the bottom just fine, unloaded some of the Wilderness Necessities from my backpack (42-inch television, case of highway flares, outboard motor), quaffed some water with my usual flair and elan, and set off again up the hill.

Along the way I must have turned my usual shade of Hideous Purple (now available at Benjamin Moore outlets), since I got some strange looks from people.

“That is the largest red grape I’ve ever seen…Oh! Excuse me!” said one chap.

One family thought I looked like a beloved television character.

“Look Mom! It’s Barney! He's blotchy!” said a kid.

Like parents everywhere with a deep and abiding hatred for the annoying purple dinosaur, Mom and Dad began arming themselves as I gallomped daintily away. “You get the club, Doris. I’ll kill it with fire…”

So up the hill I aorted, my wheezing gasps mimicking the sound of an air raid siren (briefly causing a platoon of soldiers to man their ack-ack guns), but beyond that I felt fine.

The warm sunshine was the perfect accompaniment to the sound of my tendons snapping on the descent, and the radiant heat from my thighs did start a few brush fires, skilfully extinguished by the lactic acid spurting from my well-developed musculature.

Poland (excuse me!) HIKE, anyone?