No-no-no-no-no . . . Yesvember

[Sweder]

A truncated plod in apocalyptic conditions in the early hours. Mud, rain, wind, cold, the four horsemen galloped gleefully alongside, urging me to turn back. And I did, at the top of Wicker Man Hill. Not because I'd lost the stomach for the fight - losing stomach would in all honesty be a good thing - but because I head for Amsterdam in a few hours and there's much to be done before then.

My considerable girth had increased overnight thanks to a celebratory curry in Spice Merchant, a recent addition to Lewesian eateries and a vast improvement on the incumbant emporiums. A lively chicken jalfrezi washed down with glasses of Cobra, topped off with a staggeringly good birthday cake. My daughter and one of her school chums whipped it up after class - a Guinness and chocolate cake no less, recipe courtesy of the good people at St James' Gate, Dublin. My son, a young man yet to develop a taste for the Dark Nectar, declared it 'the best cake I've ever had.'

About 4 miles this morning.
Like bouncing one's head off a rough brick wall, it was nice when it stopped.