Today I ran a three mile fartlek, with a mile warm-up and cool-down. I find fartleks hard to judge. Do I push myself too hard, or do I take it too easy? For the latter, I sometimes find, when running a recovery section, that I have drifted off into a reverie, for example I might imagine myself in the basement swimming pool of the Royal Automobile Club on Pall Mall; the pool is empty apart from the actress who plays Isabelle so well in Birdsong. As I reach the end of a length I turn and see that her swimming costume has fallen off. Not wishing the poor girl to feel embarrassed, I strip off my Vilebrequin trunks, exclaiming, 'gosh, isn't modern workmanship shoddy? No one can sew a seam these days.' She turns to me, holds out her hand, and whispers huskily, 'Tom, chéri, there is no one to see us'. Gently, I....and then I realise I am on my own, running on Seaford seafront before dawn, and I really ought to speed up.
