I ran the shortest run ever tonight, 1.1 miles. The plan had been to swim, for a change, in the morning, but the cats and a troubled sleep conspired against me. I dreamt I was travelling to the London marathon, driven by an old girlfriend, but we arrived at a station to find it had been bombed. Amid the dead and wounded, all I cared about was getting to the start on time.
Make of that what you will, in running terms I went out on my return from work. The Burra Mem thought I was innocently employed making my roast pepper salad for a family party tomorrow, but in reality I was running. Don't tell her, will you?
