The temperature this morning disputes my belief that it is spring. A good five minutes to scrape the hardest of frosts off the car. Fingers still numb an hour later.
The sky is clear and blue, and the sun is bouncing off all the new gilding on Holborn Viaduct. Dedicated runners pass me, huffing out cloudy breath, rucksacks of work clothes bouncing on their backs. I retire to a coffee shop, to warm my teeth and fingers.
Still not completely back into my running. There's a new stabby pain beneath my right knee cap. It's not serious, but it is a warning. Last time I had knee issues, it felt like my knee cap was going to spring off, like one of those sucker toys. Very unstable and weird. I went through several packets of frozen peas and a lot of physio to sort it out. Don't want the same again, so I'm going steady.
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| I'm just big-boned |
Or that's my excuse anyway (nothing stopping me cycling or rowing, is there?). I am being very sluggish in shifting the extra winter insulation. Next week I have a health assessment. I will be weighed and measured and cholesteroled and blood pressured. In my pants, goddammit. I planned to have everything in hand by then - I thought the deadline would make me step up. Interestingly, the closer the assessment comes, the more I find myself cracking out the toast in carb-based acts of rebellion. I've always been a bit of a last minuter, as demonstrated by my eternal pre-Fringe writing panic. A hairy week of weeping and pacing normally allows me to squeeze something out, and get away with it.
Cannot use the same approach for the health assessment. Nowhere to hide when you're in your pants.
Oh, the shame. The terrible, cringing shame.
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