The Mouse that Honked

It's been a kind of fairy-tale week. So much so, I don't think I can hold it until the weekend. I have to go out to work soon but I thought I'd do a spot of blogging first.

As you know we had a fine Pentland's Run last Saturday. On Sunday we went to Gullane and despite sore legs I was feeling kind of peppy, so I kept raising the pace. On Monday my legs were protesting pretty loudly - particularly the outside of my right knee, so I went for a "recovery" run - which I enjoyed - but when I got home I started to stiffen up...and stiffen up.

I don't know if I had the flu or a fever too but come night time I could barely walk for the pain in my legs and for some reason my right wrist had joined in the game and was really sore too. I had to be up at 5.30 for work - and  I did get up, but getting out of bed wasn't easy and neither was making breakfast and then when I thought about the task of carrying my bike down three flights of stairs and cycling the 7 miles to get there I realised that this just wasn't working out.

So I had a day rattling around the house, or maybe hurpling around. I was too sore to enjoy skiving and too bored and sore to sit for long.

The flat smelled - the Pentlands were very boggy and we'd both come home with wet, dirty shoes, which we'd plonked on the rails of a ladder in the hall. Peter had left his crusty socks there too. He sniffed them and blanched. They were the prime suspect for why the flat was just so smelly. We contained them in the washing machine until a wash went on - and things eased up a bit.

By Wednesday I was a bit more mobile - nothing startling - but I managed to take my bike to the Telferton sorting office to pick up some non-delivered parcels. It's amazing how a day on house arrest recalibrates your idea of novelty. I really enjoyed my 7 mile round trip - the smell of MacDonald's chips at Seafield and the sea-breezes at Porty. I was cycling at glacial pace and hurpling when I got off, but at least I could get out the door.

When I got back to the flat though, it was still smelling. We'd emptied the bins, those socks had been dealt with...what could it be?

Well you already know the end of the story. I said to Peter last night "you know it smells like when we had a dead mouse before". He went out for a run. I was still too broken to attempt to sort it. I figured it was behind the fridge. For some reason that's where they go. Maybe it's because it's warm.

So today I didn't bounce out of bed but I can bend my right leg to nearly 90 degrees. "Fucking A" I hear you say. I know!!! The sun is out and I'm getting better. Hopefully I'll be running by the weekend. My wrist has stopped hurting too. I don't know what its game was.

So I felt big and strong enough to take a torch and look behind the fridge.

And there he was. Poor little lamb. I managed to get him out with the brush and shovel and he left a little wet stain on the shovel. RIP you smelly little sausage.