The LTLP is away for a couple of days.

Whilst I’ve spent my evening reheating a ready-meal, watching University Challenge (125 points today), eking out the one remaining bottle of Weston’s cider and refreshing my site stats every two minutes, she’s been stuck in a hotel room with nothing but satellite TV and a minibar.

I pity her sad existence.

Being a leading expert in the field of interesting things, she goes away a lot. So I’m on my own in the cottage, in the freezing cold (no central heating and windows open all day) and with the main living area uninhabitable.

Outside it’s as dark as dark could be. No street lights, no neon glow. No cars passing – not for the last twenty minutes, anyway.

I think I can probably be excused a bit of introspection.

I started this blog for a number of reasons.

First and foremost, I wanted to start writing again. And it seemed like this sort of framework would give me the kick up the arse I needed. So I set myself a few rules (two of which I’ve already broken in this post) and got on with it.

Secondly, other people were doing it and I felt left out.

And thirdly, I was genuinely concerned that I was turning into a cross between Mr Pooter and a scary obsessive-compulsive freak-boy with tightwad tendencies.

An example:

The toothpaste has almost run out. So the tube is battered and worn, the end folded up as far and as tightly as it will possibly go.

There is a new tube of toothpaste ready and waiting.

However, earlier I spent a good deal of time on the old tube. I managed to get a few grammes out by laying it on the edge of the bath and putting my whole weight on it. Then I probed the bristles of the toothbrush down the end of the opening, fishing for any more that might be hidden away. At the end of the process I had perhaps three-quarters of the volume of toothpaste needed for a satisfactory brushing.

Then I put the old tube back in the mug. Not in the bin.

It’s behaviour like this that is concerning me.

I’m going to London later today. There will be people there, and discourse. I hope I do not frighten them with my insular ways. Working on my own in the house – I’ve lost touch with civilisation.

Slowly, but inexorably, I am turning into an old git.

Soot.

No, only kidding.

I go for a run.

Run, run, run!

Inspired by Mr Singh, I’ve added around a half-mile to my usual circuit. By the time I pass the duckpond, I’m in my stride.

A car slows to a crawl beside me. A head pokes out of the driver’s window.

Mixed feelings. I like helping people with directions, as it makes me feel terribly local. But I also don’t like stopping mid-run.

The car is an old Fiesta (I think). It’s been sprayed luminous yellow. It has a big spoiler, and some wheels that perhaps were replaced after leaving the factory. Bulbous wheel arches complete the effect.

Somebody has clearly spent money on it. Although it’s beyond me as to why they didn’t just buy a better vehicle in the first place.

I regard it with pity. It’s not a car, it’s a cry for help.

I continue jogging slowly, nod to the chap leaning out of the window, and remove my headphones in a gesture of communication.

He looks exactly how you’d expect the driver of such a vehicle to look. Baseball cap. Haircut.

“Scuse me,” says the man in the Car of Shame.

Incredible how ‘Excuse me’ – a completely unnecessary use of breath unless you positively wish to be polite to someone – can be rendered so as to appear an act of indifferent insolence.

I slow to a halt, there in my tracksuit, jogging on the spot, the living epitome of health and exercise.

“You got a light on you, mate?”

I gape at him.

Although it isn’t quite Las Vegas, I can see at least three other people going about their business in the street or in their front gardens.

No matter how I try, I just cannot comprehend the thought processes that had led him to conclude that I’d be the particular one likely to be carrying a silver Zippo and twenty Benson’s. I pat my tracksuit apologetically.

“No. Sorry, mate”. I reply.

I might as well have added: “You got a copy of The Brothers Karamazov?”

He pulled away, with a grunt.

I ran on.