Tis The Season

[Sweder]

Woke up to some seasonal sword-play with Mrs S. Invites for Christmas drinks, the delivery of cards, yada yada yada . . . it ended as it always does, with me laid out on the bed, her rapier quivering in my vanquished chest. My mood was not improved by the small army of ulcers that have invaded my mouth in recent days. A sure sign that I'm under the weather, run down after a tough autumn show season, these recurrent leech-like lesions are a painful reminder that I need to rest and recharge. I dragged myself off the bed and opened the curtains . . . onto a view of winterous wonder. What a morning! Intricate patterns of frost laced the downland under a clear blue sky. Trees stood tall, sparkling in the early morning light, not a breath of wind to disturb their majesty; time to run!

I set off without radio or music player, intent on soaking up every nuance of the morning. We runners who write (or writers who run) set out to forage for words, gathering descriptions and feelings like yuletide fire-food. All around me shrubs and trees twinkled in their crystal skins. My breath plumed in the cold air, steam rising from my shoulders as my body warmed to the uphill challenge. Bones and muscles groaned from Sunday's Mince Pie mashing, but as the run unfolded so my pain receded, leaving only the joy of being part of such a fabulous day.

After turning at Blackcap I stood to gaze upon the scene. The heaving bosom of the hills dressed in finest gossamer; the flat stomach of the Ouze valley plains draped in a mist so fine and light, like freshly-sprayed scent. This magical corner of the Earth turned its face to the wintry sun, steam rising from the gently warming soil. I took a deep breath and set sail for home, feasting greedily on this splendiferous tableau.

Stretching hard on my frozen front steps, sweat dripping at my feet, my own steam curling off my back, I gave silent thanks for days like this. When all your troubles, however serious or petty, can be set aside for fifty minutes of pure, untrammeled self-indulgent pleasure.