Yesterday's dawn sky was bright with large angel wings. My funny leg felt better but I thought I'd go out a cautious run - just once round the seat and then if it was fine I could always add an extra loop in.
I took my camera as the sky looked so nice, although soon after dawn it greyed over.
As I stepped out the front door the first thing I saw was a tiny dead mouse. It looked like it had been caught in a trap and then tossed carelessly out of a window onto the pavement below.
I could have seen it as a sign;
As flies to wanton boys are we to th' gods,
They kill us for their sport.
King Lear Act 4, scene 1, 32–37 They kill us for their sport.
At first my leg seemed to be working fine. It was a bit stiff, so up at Arthur's seat I stopped to take a picture of a passing flock of geese and then had a quad stretch with a small tree for support. After this things went literally uphill but metaphorically downhill. All the way up the road round the seat the muscle just above my knee got tighter and tighter and all the way downhill and home it was stiff as a board and I had to just keep my pace as even as possible to minimise the discomfort. I am sick about it. I want to go a long run at the weekend. I have had a few bits of friendly advice to just take it easy, blah, blah, blah, blah, so I'll say it now. I WANT TO GO A LONG RUN AT THE WEEKEND. I DON'T WANT TO GO CHRISTMAS SHOPPING OR TO TESCOS OR TO THE STUDENT-STAFF LIAISON MEETING I STUPIDLY SAID I'D GO TO THIS AFTERNOON. THE ONLY REDEEMING FEATURE OF THIS HORRIBLE TIME OF YEAR IS THE ODD SUNNY DAY WHEN YOU CAN GET OUTSIDE FOR A FEW HOURS AND BREATHE A LITTLE. THE REST OF IT IS PISH.
That is all.
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