I don’t know exactly where I am.
Somewhere near Rugby, in a haunted hotel – a gothic, Victorian manor house with shadowy corners and vaulted corridors. And restless ghouls.
It was pitch black and freezing when I got out for a run at about 7:30 this evening. Padding down the drive, I kept a watch out for the ghostly coach and six horses that may be seen racing across the lawn on dark nights, being urged forward by the apparition of “One-Armed Boughton” who lived in the early 1700s. Nowt about tonight though. The twisty, tree-lined lane up to the main road was as hazardous a quarter mile as I’ve ever travelled on foot, but I made it. It was like clambering out of a pit.
My prize was the opportunity to traverse a vast, floodlit industrial estate. It was a visit to another planet. Hundreds of parked cars surrounded the giant factories and warehouses, and the wide roads were lined with parked trucks. But not one human being was to be seen. Which was more frightening? This dehumanised, concrete universe, or the haunted hotel? Not much in it.
It was good to be out though. After Monday’s rest day, I was due to clock up 4 or 5 miles yesterday. But I slunk home from work with a cotton-wool head, sore throat and the certainty that I was in for a heavy cold. Only my nose would be running yesterday evening. If the missed run was a disappointment, then waking up this morning feeling strangely healthy made up for it.
You never know what’s round the next corner, do you?
Gulp…
