I finally managed to make it to the Wig Scratchers today, and for the princely sum of ten pounds (including a generous pound-fifty tip - see, my mum dragged me up proper, she did) my head is now something like half a kilo lighter. Yes, the wavy locks that I could flick this way and that like a poofter in a 1970's aftershave commercial are now gone, trimmed back to more accurately reflect the actual shape of my head.

I can only say that it is a relief, though typically my neck warming mullet has gone at just the same time as winter's cold fronts descend across the land. Ah well, that's what my cashmere scarf is for.

Hopefully this removal of superfluous tresses will free up my brain for the more important stuff, like finishing this damned book. For those who like word counts, I've just about hit the 100k mark, which means about another 25-30k to go in the first draft, I'd guess. Hopefully I'll get it done by the end of the month, but I can't promise anything. Not tonight, anyway. Tonight I'm cream crackered.

I blame Mr Stuart* with all his talk of running ten miles as if it were no more onerous than a gentle stroll along the Beach Boulevard.** I notice that now the cats have arrived, the running has gone very quiet, but he shamed me, so he did. It's taken me a few weeks to get back to the point where I can contemplate running my usual route, up to the windmills and back via the arch. According to my birthday present from the Horse Doctor, that comes to a total of seven and three quarter miles, and at the moment it's taking me an hour and ten minutes, including a four minute breather at the top.

you'll see from the green line that there's a lot of up involved.

I've done this run three times this week, on Monday, Wednesday and this afternoon. Wednesday was the fastest, by a minute and a half, but I wasn't stopped mid-way by our new near-neighbours that time - you can see the spot just after two miles where my speed drops down quite noticeably for a while. These are the people who bought the house the Horse Doctor and I wanted to buy back in the spring. Far too much money for their own good, and the same age as us, if I'm any judge. It's not fair. But they seemed nice enough people. I introduced myself and they did the same, but as my brain is made of Swiss cheese, I instantly forgot. Idiot.

But I digress. Three of these runs in reasonably rapid succession has left me wiped out. In my youth, I would have done one in the morning, one in the afternoon and another in the evening, but now, as decrepitude reaches ever closer, I need a good twenty-four hours to recover.*** So now, with the cumulative effect of the week's exercise weighing down heavily on me, I find the creative juices have temporarily dried up.

Time, I think, for more beer.

* as ever, it's usually the safest bet.
** though according to the weather forecast they're in for easterlies next week, which always makes the bouley a fun place to be.
*** bearing in mind that the dachshund and I walk briskly for an hour every day in addition to anything more strenuous. His little legs are too short for him to come running with me, sadly.


Stuart MacBride said…
You're right: a combination of interloper cats, in-laws, and line edits has got me right scunnered where the running's concerned.

Gosh darn it.

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