So after a few more recovery days... (I know I know, looks like I didnt learn my lesson after all) I'm back in London briefly to hand in an essay, which it turns out I cant actually hand in until next week, which is probably for the best since I havent finished it yet. While Im here though I thought Id take advantage of a nice flat pavement to get me back into the swing of things and relight my walking fire before I head back home and inflict my recaptured enthusiasm on Dad, if he'll ever walk again after his traumatic experience in Yorkshire of course. I woke up bright and early (7.15am dont you know), ready to get this show on the road (as I do make quite the spectacle of myself apaprently) and discovered very quickly that fire of any sort would struggle to be ignited in any form in this weather. Yes its raining. However I steeled myself Im not a witch (contrary to some comments) and therefore unikely to melt if I get a bit wet, so off I went.
Rain is wet. Seems like a statement of the obvious I know, but I dont think any of you can really understand until you've experienced it. And cold, so very cold. There were not many people about this morning (who would be mad enough to venture out in this icey torrent) and so I was reletively undisturbed, which was good because my attitutde following 5 minutes spent outside meant that even if my Orlando Bloom was to materialise today he wouldnt get much out of me, not that he'd want much with me rocking the drowned-rat-shuffling-along-with-my-soggy-hood-up-look. It was very much with a hurry up and get this over with view of the world today that I stomped around, resisting the ultimate temptation to flee back to our nice warm house when I passed it on the 4 mile mark, eventually returning to it 6 miles in 1 hour 15. So maybe it was jsut what I needed, it was certainly a cold wet hell but maybe also just what I needed...
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