It’s been another lax week. I suppose the final realisation that Dublin isn’t going to happen for me, has delivered a dangerous message that I’ve been too happy to snatch at. Silly really. Running is a recipe for joy and soaring self-esteem, so god knows why I should creep into these lethargic corners as though I was gaining something. But this isn’t going to be yet another burst of bloody soul-searching. I’ve done enough of that.
I was reminded this week of just how much of it I’ve done. I recently dumped all these logs into a Word document, printed them, and am now more than halfway through reading the stuff from start to finish. I have a writing project bubbling away somewhere, and it was suggested that this might help. I was startled by the quantity of the stuff. It stacks up to 340 pages of single-spaced A4, and just shy of 200,000 words.
It’s been an eye-opener. What’s clear is that I need to effect some kind of fundamental change to knock off a few of these targets I’ve lined up for myself. But not another false dawn, please. This evening, over a bottle of decent Barolo and a formidable slab of Stilton, I realised that I have to magic up a new attitude from somewhere. One that will stick. How? Let’s have just one more glass of this stuff while I think about that…
