Today was one of those days where, if it wasn’t for Janathon, I would have done nothing. The plan was to run with my friend, but she wasn’t able to make it and I remembered that it was only polite to visit my sister’s Mr on his birthday. It would have been so easy to go visiting and then go home for tea.
However, Janathon duty calls and I found myself dressed like the Milk Tray man (black tights, black thermal top) but delivering a nice shiraz instead of over-sweet chocolates. Ginge shoved me out of the car at the top of the road and I ran home dressed like the Milk Tray man with an over zealous health and safety risk assessor (black tights, black thermal top, hi-vis bib).
It’s a route that takes me through the less salubrious end of town (having said that, every other unit in the town centre seems to be a pound shop, so I’m not sure that’s saying a great deal) and was mainly downhill until my nemesis hill on the way back into the village. Compare and contrast our running club leader’s idea of “mainly downhill” with my idea of “mainly downhill”.
Needless to say, this route helped me to go at a fairly decent lick. On the uphill into the village I heard an owl. It’s an appropriate place to hear an owl (next to the nature reserve, plenty of trees), but I started to doubt myself and wondered what if it’s not an owl, maybe it’s someone pretending to be an owl. With some kind of owl hoot apparatus. Maybe as a part of a pirate/smuggling escapade. It was probably just an owl.
|Ferrero rochers burned|