After the sucesses of the previous 2 days, the wise thing to do would be power through the pain and keep the routine going, and get another 8 miler done on the Friday, however an altogether more important routine overruled the sef torture. Friday is a busy hairdressers-food shop-lunch-bingo extravaganza with Grandma, and I may invest in a pedometer to track myself, because all that skivvying leaves me knackered every week.
Saturday I had an unusual walking experience too; on occasion, despite the fact that our house is surrounded by fields and the walkway you all know so much about now, Mam decides that the countryside is simply not good enough for her doggy, and so she pops him in the car and takes him in to town to do a couple of laps of the local park. It all sounds simple and painless, maybe even pleasant? Not with this dog in the equation. "Popping him in the car" involves lashing him to the back seat in his harness, as he refuses to go in the boot, and then wrestling him the whole way wherever we're going to prevent him from trying to sit in the drivers lap for the journey. The 15 minute drive seemed to trake 15 years and we emerged from the car covered in dog hair, dog drool and scratches, war wounds from the battle of the front seat. Mam found it all adorable though, and after being dragged round the park by the idiot animal chasing squirrels, birds and other smaller dogs for an hour she declared him tired and we repeated the process in the drive home, with the dogs hind quaters in the back of the car and his front end wedged in the gap between the front and passenger seats, dribbling contentedly.