Free This Is Your Life by John O'Farrell

well, you know, I was only talking to him yesterday’
    â€˜Mmm,’ she said, with a slight suggestion that I might already have mentioned this. And then, as if she had just thought of the most poignant tribute possible, as if it would be what Billy really would have wanted, she added: ‘Jimmy, can we get a shot of you jogging down the hill?’
    â€˜I’m sorry?’
    â€˜It’s a linking shot, to talk over while we’re saying who you are. If you could just jog towards us from that bench over there.’
    â€˜Oh, I see. Um – OK. Do I know that Billy has died at this point?’
    â€˜Er – Mike – what do you think? Should he look sad or just normal?’
    â€˜Erm – well, neutral I think, I mean obviously not happy, but not running along blubbing either.’
    After my word-perfect speech, ‘Jimmy one-take Conway’ felt pretty confident about an easy task like running down the hill. So I flattened down my hair and pulled my socks up and tried to jog as athletically and gracefully as possible. I imagined the
Chariots of Fire
theme as a soundtrack to my running across the horizon.
    â€˜Er, that was OK, Jimmy, except for some reason you were running in slow motion. Could you just do it once more for us, and this time try jogging a teensy little bit more naturally? Just try and forget the cameras are here, OK?’
    I felt my face go red, and hoped they’d put it down to the exercise, except that my slow-motion interpretation had not involved any actual exertion. OK, cut the
Chariots of Fire
theme, I said to myself as I skipped back up to the bench, and when they were ready, I ran towards them much more quickly, determined not to repeat this mistake, I tore past the camera like Jesse Owens on whizz and Maggie shouted, ‘Whoa! Whoa! You’re just out jogging; it’s not the hundred-metre dash at the Olympics!’
    â€˜Sorry, sorry, too much the other way!’
    â€˜That’s fine, don’t worry. Just relax and, when you’re ready, give us a normal jog down from the bench.’
    â€˜Sorry. Bit nervous . . .’
    â€˜Don’t worry,’ she said, and I noticed her glance at her watch while the cameraman’s loathing reached new heights. He spat at the ground as if no words could ever express his contempt.
    â€˜A normal jog’ she had said. You wouldn’t imagine that the simple act of running could be difficult, but I seemed to have lost the knack. Each step became self-conscious and contrived. Suddenly I couldn’t remember how far I should stride with each step, how high to bring up my knees, how much I should swing my arms; I was paralysed by the embarrassing image of myself bobbing across the television screen like the wooden marionette of some 1950s children’s TV show. It was difficult enough concentrating on which limb to move next without simultaneously having to focus upon what sort of facial expression I should present. I settled on the gritty ‘loneliness of the long-distance runner’ look, and lumbered towards the camera with the forlorn look of a recently bereaved jogger. Perfect! I thought. The cameraman turned to the producer and without lowering his voice said:
    â€˜Nah, the fucking idiot looked into the camera.’
    â€˜Sorry, Jimmy, we should have said. Don’t look at the camera lens, look straight ahead to the side of it, and keep running straight past.’
    â€˜Oh, OK, so I’ll keep my eyes on an imaginary object to the left of camera.’
    â€˜Great idea!’
    Notice how I said to the left ‘of camera’ not ‘of the camera’ – I couldn’t help picking up the jargon after only minutes in the biz. I did my little dash once more and kept running straight past as instructed. But then I was unsure whether or not the cameraman had swivelled round to film me running off into the distance, so I thought unless instructed otherwise I should