March On, March On

[Sweder]

No running to report. I’m trying to balance recovery with performance; it’s proving to be a tricky juggling act. One mid-week run for the second week, er . . . running, a long one in prospect this Sunday a beacon in the gloom. The ailments have at least responded to the rest, as has my midriff. I mounted the scales this morning to see 92 kilos flash up for the first time in weeks; ugh. No doubt last night’s epic adventure with the mighty SP, featuring enthusiastic quality control in a number of hostelries, plus a triumphant return to the pool tables in the Two Brewers, was a factor. Speaking of recovery, I felt suitably jaded when Mrs S kicked me out of bed to make the tea. My thanks to the Big Fella for a timely return to the pubs though; this running lark's been getting way too serious of late.

As I shuffled mournfully into the kitchen Rick Wakeman, broadcasting his mixture of eclectic sounds and terrible gags from Planet Rock, stuck on a classic Tubes number. My morning cross-training consisted of some alarming pogo-ing to White Punks On Dope, much to the concern of the hounds who until my eviction had been snoozing on our bed. Happily my son didn’t emerge from his daily hibernation to catch me bopping about in my boxers – that sort of thing can have life-long ramifications.

So it’s back to the Honey-Do list – you know, ‘Honey do this, Honey do that’ – in time for the ninety minutes of frustrated screaming at the inept English team trying manfully to eek out a draw in Tel Aviv. Happy days.