I’m back to working from home for a day on Monday as a chap
comes to service the boiler but the Lad seems to think the weekend has been
extended by a day which isn’t ideal.
After work, which is 5pm despite The Lad insisting it’s 3pm,
I take him for a run. Which was probably a bad idea but my knees survive and
therefore Monday might subsequently become our run night. We do just over 4k.
Daughter takes up Kung Fu or it might be Jiu Jitsu. L
doesn’t seem sure.
England play the Czech Republic, or Czechia as they now wish
to be stylishly known, at the Euros and win 1-0. Taking them through to the
L takes a trip to Harley Street for work on Wednesday and is again
beset by Mango problems getting to the train station by bus. So I’m sure like
many others she swerves away from Trent Barton and gets a City bus instead.
I post a video of the Lad’s training night and everyone
seems worried about his knees as he flies over the equipment. I suppose my
own knees are already beyond sympathy.
Friday, according to my Garmin, delivers a new best pace (6:17)
for our morning run.
Matt Hancock is caught on camera being a naughty boy. Kissing
someone from another household was most definitely not allowed at that stage of
lockdown. The Sun runs pictures and a video while Boris Johnson just looks on
in admiration but Hancock resigns the next day.
Saturday sees L over at her parents watching 1970s
music with her Dad and she returns home with a fresh supply of spiky squeaky balls
for the boys.
We run another 16k on Sunday and reward ourselves with Sunday Lunch at the Hand and Heart while simultaneously tearing our hair out at the Mango App.
(Sunday 27th June)