After jettisoning squash for beer last night I get abusive emails from my opponent who rather than putting his feet up was dragged out for a run around Ruddington Country Park instead and that is of course my fault. I bet he enjoyed it really.
L who is still full of flu (or something) promises to wear a gas mask tonight and let herself go. That is in case I think she’s been too boring recently. Never and that doesn’t sound boring. Kinky and/or problematic perhaps but not boring.
Apparently we still have alcohol units to burn tonight despite last night’s beer festival attendance. Seemingly beer festivals are like broken biscuits, they don't count. Don't count for what? I’m now assured that if they're broken they're not fattening.So there you go.
I go for a lunchtime run. Inconclusive. At the moment I still have a date with the start line in Peterboroughon Sunday but I wouldn’t describe it as a particularly hot date.
To help me recover from my run, L promises to be waiting when I get home with something long, knobbly and bright orange. Joy. As well as the gas mask I assume.
She says just think of the t-shirt, with Peterborough printed all over it. Hmm. I’m sure I’ll be a total wreck at the end of it.
She reassures me that it's nothing that a bacon sandwich, hot bath, post-race sex, a couple of pints of OP and several dozen chucks of a ball won't cure. As well as something long, knobbly and bright orange if I can bear the pain.
Motivational talk. The first paragraph is more inspiring than the second one, despite the ball chucks.
(Friday 10th October)