Joining the nation, gripped by Marathon Madness, is no mean feet
One of the many incredible things about living opposite a park for the first time ever – watching the trees act out the seasons, the abundant oxygen, the lack of ambulance sirens shrieking up the street – is the incredible amount of guilt.
There they go, day after day, jog-jog-jog, these unstoppable fitness militants all vim, purpose and bottles of water with in-built grip, first thing in the morning as you sit there wondering just how many more hours of your fast-decreasing lifetime will you waste watching The Wright Stuff listening to the indispensable opinions on our immigration troubles from Anthony Costa out of Blue (who is, at least, being more productive with his morning than you are…)
The other day, though, something finally cracked, the day after a four-hour get-together “lunch” which involved the pub, no grub whatsoever and three packets of 10 fags gustily smoked between three recently given-up “non-smokers”. This, after six consecutive pub nights, where midnight meals were involved, inducing what we know in the trade as ‘writer’s arse’ while the mood mysteriously dipped and the complexion paled to a deathly, toxic grey. And so you find yourself, for the first time ever, staring out the kitchen window to where the path to the park begins and saying, “I am going … right now … for a run …”
Read the rest at the Sunday Herald
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