Life is sweet. Sometimes.
After my epoch-marking run last Tuesday morning, the heat forced me to lapse into extended sloth. Just in case you are reading this on the International Space Station, I should mention that we’ve been undergoing a collective ooze here on Earth, in the severest heatwave since Stonehenge was winning its appeal for planning permission.
Don’t we just love to martyr ourselves like this? We complain most of the year because it isn’t summer, and for the rest of the time we complain that it is.
But it is hot – no more so than yesterday when the temperature topped 100F for the first time ever in the UK. Despite this milestone, I spent a half hour early in the morning, trotting round the 3.5 mile block. It was hardly a great run, but the wonder was that it was a run at all. And it allowed me the luxury of feeling holy for the rest of the day.
I was already in a state of enhanced well-being following the first pilgrimage of the season to Loftus Road the day before, where I saw QPR hand out a 5-0 pasting to Blackpool. My diet went to pot. After breakfasting on a Burger King Double Whopper meal, I met up with a mate for 6 pre-match pints, and a couple of celebratory post-match ones. Then it was off to meet up with an old friend at The Patio, a splendid Polish restaurant on Shepherds Bush Green. Bread, sausage, goulash, mountains of potato, a proper creme caramel, a couple of shots of lemon vodka and a bottle of Pinot Grigio.
Yeah. Now that’s what I call a good day out.
Today the diet started again. Tomorrow, early, I’ll be out on the beat once more.
Probably.
