I first became aware of the chafing outside MacDonalds. Which was disappointing, beacuse: it wasn't raining and so I couldn't blame the soggy bottoms, and it's less than two miles from home.
By the Methodist church my knees were reminding me that they are very nearly 46 years old and, until recently, had never expected to be doing this sort of thing so would I please stop it. I ignored them.
The mental jukebox sprang into life shortly afterwards (having bought iPods for the progeny I can't afford one for myself) and some chap called Powter, which I had always believed to be some variety of pigeon, kept banging on about what a bad day I'd had. Sadly, I don't know the lyrics to this ditty and so I had the chorus looping for the next hour or so. This was good, because it was playing at a speed that I could run to comfortably and stay in my chosen heart rate zone, but bad because at that speed I'll still be running when the pubs shut.
Don't feel too bad now, but expect to have the same problem with stairs tomorrow as I had last week.
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