I complained last month that the light at the end of the Dartford tunnel kept flickering enticingly, without ever really appearing. Well, it’s now burning bright. Barring yet another last minute stay of liberation, it looks like my time here will finally be winding up this week. I’ve done me porridge, and I’m going home.
So this week, I’m playing my joker. There was always a strong possibility that the week would be a bit of a write-off in any case, for all sorts of reasons, but if it’s my last week, who needs a further excuse?
But if you do, here are a few. Thursday’s the birthday of a colleague who announced a while ago that it was time we had a good old knees-up. And last weekend marked 50 days of abstemiousness, which is even longer than Jesus managed in the desert. He went without a good bevy for only 40 days and 40 nights, apparently. Surely I can celebrate beating his record?
The other reason is that next week represents my last few days of freedom before my training starts. Not my marathon training proper, but the month of 20 mile weeks that New Coach Bob has specified. So I have 16 weeks of real training, preceded by a month of gentler groundwork, preceded by a week of tuning in, turning on and, er, calf stretches, preceded by a week of beer-guzzling and pizza-chomping.
This week’s the week of beer-guzzling and pizza-chomping.
I’m back in the Dartford Hilton for, I’m told, the very last time. Sitting here in my usual salmon sofa, laptop on knees, but this time at least, with the chance to enjoy a glass of Waitrosian Montepulciano d’Abruzzo. Never a bad choice if you want to get mildly drunk for less than a fiver. That’s what it says on the bottle anyway. I think. It’s in Italian, so I can’t be certain. Others may translate it more literally. Something about dark grapes ripening in the shimmering heat.
Rather optimistically, I packed my trainers and 3 sets of running clothes this week. Plus _colin, my GPS ‘gadge’. I even have New Coach Bob’s book sitting on the table in front of me. I try not to notice it, but how can you ignore a missile aimed at your heart like that?
Looks like the week will be a write-off – first one in months.
Aw, stuff happens.
I’ll be fine until the alarm clock detonates at 7 a.m.
