I’d presumed there’d be no more Leeds entries after my break. But it seems the plan to migrate south again last week, never got off the ground. I was also expecting to be on holiday this week too, until being told, two days before my fortnight was due to start, that my second week had been cancelled. Pitiful Bastards. Let’s hope my bosses are not tempted to arrange a social occasion at the local brewery.
A mysterious event is happening in Leeds this week. No one knows for sure what it is, but it’s claimed the life of almost every hotel room in the city. Rather good news for me as I have an excuse to seek out a change of scene. I’ve found a place in a southern suburb that I once knew rather well, though, Brideshead Revisited-like, I didn’t realise that until I turned up on the doorstep.
It masquerades as a sort of country house hotel, though it’s little more than a Travelodge in a park. I’ve no complaints with that. I like these identikit business hotels. You know what you’re getting. And more to the point, what you’re not.
That said, this one is a bit more… feature-rich, as we software groupies like to say. There’s a gym, and… erm… other things, I suspect. I’ll mention them if I find out what they are.
I last ran eight days ago, and after such a sinful absence, my penance would be severe. Unpacked, togs on and away. It had to be done. It’s that first painful investment necessary to ensure the eventual payback. But as usual, it wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. Eight days is a long time, but up until last Sunday’s race, I’d run ten days out of twelve, which must have put a bit of extra in the Bank of Residual Energy. And while my time in Ireland was filled with Guinness, greasy breakfasts, fish and chips, and packets of Toffos (no longer available in England), at least I managed a strenuous midweek workout on Croagh Patrick.
As usual, the worst thing, physically and mentally, was the extra weight I was carrying. Today I’m seemingly 8 pounds heavier than I was this time last week.
I jogged round the corner to Oakwell Park, the setting for Oakwell Hall, an endearingly ramshackle 16th Century manor house. I’ve been to this park once before, about 10 years ago, with a then girlfriend and her 5 year old son. I remember him rushing around in a Batman outfit, engaging invisible monsters and villains with a rather incongruous plastic sword. Coincidentally, the TV news this evening is overflowing with pictures of the protestor dressed as Batman who climbed onto the balcony at Buckingham Palace. The po-faced BBC correspondent was solemnly opining on the breach of security but of course he, like the rest of us, was secretly enjoying this nutter in fancy dress lounging on the ledge of a building full of nutters in fancy dress.
Back in the park, in between gulps of air, I was trying to recall details of my last visit here, with Mandy and Thomas. The relationship lasted for a year or so, and I suspect that the main reason for its failure was her name. There’s nothing intrinsically wrong with being called Mandy, but we couldn’t endure the social embarrassment of being referred to as “Andy and Mandy”. This was always followed by loud guffaws, and unspokenly, we decided that it was too great a burden to bear.
What if forumite Mid Life Crisis Man had a partner called Midwife Spices Fan? They’d never have got past their first 2 or 3 gallons of Boag’s on that inaugural date.
It’s a wild park with hills and shady woodland trails. More than enough to keep me entertained in the week ahead.
