Arrived at my hotel at 6pm, to find no non-smoking rooms left. Threw a few toys out of the pram — didn’t like them much anyway — and cancelled the reservation. Returned to the street with my bags. Took a look around. Slightly daunting. Dusseldorf is cold today. Surrounded by office blocks blazing in the darkness, but little else. Was I making a mistake? Wandered round the corner, full of loathing for modern life. Then a Novotel bumped into me. Get in! Life was good again.
I’ve felt unhealthy and bloated today; not the ideal way to start another marathon training campaign. The few glasses of wine I imbibed last night are annoying me. Well hang on, it’s hardly their fault, is it? I’m the one to blame. I didn’t overdo it, but I had just enough to make me think “what the hell” when I tried to tiptoe past the mince pie stash without waking them. Scoffed four of the seductive blighters, plus lots of fatty junk stuff through the evening. Crisps, ice cream, cheese, crackers.
Alcohol. It’s all the fault of alcohol. The root of all evil for the runner with the… fuller figure.
Booked into the second hotel, stripped off, went to the fitness room and spent a grim 25 minutes bouncing along the treadmill and dancing with the cross-trainer. It was hard and horrible and I sweated like a sweaty pig.
Serves me right.
