I go for a run.

Run! Run! Run!

“When you gooooo, will yae send baaackkk…” the motivational running music on my MP3 spurs me on.

But all is not well. I’m not even half way to the Village Shop and I’m struggling and panting. My legs seem to have turned into lead, which is inconvenient, as it is extremely heavy (and also poisonous).

I am horribly out of shape.

This is bad news. My idle plan to do the Marathon next year in aid of the African Orphans is in tatters. I think it was the Cheerful Builder’s brother – the Cheerful Decorator – who told me that if you don’t run for two weeks then your legs sort of reset into what they were before and you have to start training again from scratch.

Still, he also told me that it would take only half a day to wallpaper the dining room, so I am not sure that he is best placed to confidently pronounce on what the human body can achieve.

It has definitely been more than two weeks since my last run. I am depressed as I hark back to the Cheerful Decorator’s words. Now the children in Africa will all die and it will be HIS FAULT.

I consider taking an abortive short cut, but grit my teeth and plod away. The thought of my hero, Mr. Singh, the 93 year-old marathon runner, keeps me going. But then I realise that he is a pensioner and can practice every day. He has never had to go through the two-week withdrawal barrier. What a fraud!

I’ve added an ‘about’ section (on the right) in response to some requests.

It took me ages, so don’t imagine you’re getting a ‘proper’ post as well.

I loved Prague.

I won’t go on about it, as then we start to become the blog equivalent of those crap TV Christmas specials where for no reason whatsoever they move the cast away from their tried-and-tested familiar location. But it was picturesque and friendly and very relaxing after the manic stress of Norfolk village life.

The Czech Republic has had its fair share of history. I marvelled at the magnificent and sinister Tyn Church that towers over the Old Market Square, wondering how long it would have taken to construct if the Cheerful Builder had been involved.

The Czechs seemed amiable enough in the olden days, occasionally throwing unpopular politicians out of upstairs windows, which seems fair enough. As in most European countries, when things went a bit wrong they’d arrange a quick rampage through the Jewish Quarter in order to work out their frustrations.

Then came the war and communism and stuff, which didn’t seem much fun. And whilst long-awaited and welcome, the departure of the Communists at the very end of the eighties brought its own problems, particularly an influx of bad caricaturists who now occupy the Charles Bridge.

The food is indescribably bad, but the beer is indescribably good, and a liquid diet of the sublimely smooth and sweet Kozal seemed to do me no harm.

I supped a Speckled Hen last night (for comparison reasons only). It tasted bitter, very bitter – bitterer than a beer brewed from the most horribly burnt hops, infused with that Bitrex stuff they put in bleach to discourage kids from swallowing, and topped off with essence of Greg Dyke.

But I forced it down.

And now I’m back at my desk, with nothing but the rabbits for company.

“We’ll be cruising at around 30,000 feet,” continued the bored voice over the intercom. “And hope to arrive in Copenhagen at around ten-thirty UK time.”

A hubub ensued, with a look of deep concern crossing the stewardess’s face. She made a dash for the cabin.

“Prague! Prague!” corrected the voice. “We are, of course, going to Prague. I’m very sorry. It’s just that I have to go to Copenhagen straight after that, and…”

He tailed off, without needing to complete the sentence, just those few words heartbreakingly encapsulating the crushing disappointment of a career that had started so full of promise and excitement on his first day at pilot’s school.

I settled into my seat, trying to ignore the stag party in the next two rows, the culinary betrayal of Garfunkle’s settling on my stomach. The LTLP is bearing up well beside me – she is very afraid of flying whereas I am not as I am too stupid.

There might be some non-European readers unfamiliar with the EasyJet concept. It is very simple – they charge a ridiculously low amount of money for the flight itself, but you have to pay for everything else. You can buy sandwiches from the trolley, order drinks, and in the event of a sudden loss of cabin pressure, a mask will drop from above your seat on insertion of the correct coinage.

It’s brought great advantages, allowing thousands of English people to travel abroad when they would not normally have been able to. And great disadvantages, allowing thousands of English people to travel abroad when they would not normally have been able to.

We touched down early, and took our first ride in a Skoda.