Dead. My new Garmin Forerunner gadget. It recharged successfully but won’t switch on. Cause of death? I suspect suicide. All these little chaps must dream of a career on the wrist of Paula Radcliffe or Paul Tergat. And instead this one got me. It chose extinction.
This news may seem sad and bad, but running makes us cheerful and optimistic, and keener to search for the bright side, remember? So I’m absolutely thrilled by this development. Assuming the shop replaces the thing, and they say they will, it means I have the pleasure of ripping open more packaging and starting again. It means an excuse to pop up to Tottenham Court Road at lunchtime tomorrow, with all those associated delights (Charing Cross Road bookshops, Italian delis, and that massive Jessops in New Oxford Street). I must dash off a thank you letter to Garmin in a moment.
Another early 3½ miles this morning. Not a lot to report. A sign in the window of one of the seven village pubs is appealing for “FLEXIBLE STAFF” which, after my Pilates class on Tuesday night, could be just the job for me. In fact the sign actually said it was looking for “FLEXIABLE” people which may mean something else entirely.
The run went pretty well. Darkness and ice patches are always a winning combination, don’t you think? The main intention this week is to try to regain a bit of fitness after the long lay-off. I’ve done the same run four times this week now, and each one has been less slow than the previous one, with today’s nearly a minute a mile less plodacious than the one last weekend, so I can enjoy my rest day tomorrow without guilt.
I’m tempted to spend the evening getting profoundly drunk, but it may be wiser to postpone this vital spiritual replenishment until Saturday evening, after the big match against Brighton. The sensible scenario has me doing my long weekend run on Saturday morning rather than Sunday, followed by an 18 hour trail of depraved hedonism stretching from Central London to West Berkshire.
[Sound of hands being vigorously rubbed together.]
