I go for a run.

Turn right at the gate and up the street. Run, run, run, run, run!

I head down past the shop and through the Lane, gracefully leaping the dog shit as I go. Leap! Leeeeeaaap!

I try to do this most days. In my pocket I have my MP3 player. It’s an extremely fine one at the moment, but give it a year and the local kids will be pointing at it and laughing.

Choosing the playlist is critical. Can’t be too uptempo, you see, as you jog with the beat. We runners know such things.

Run, run! My Matalan tracksuit cunningly retains the sweat, thus stopping my skin from drying out.

I turn left, past the spooky disused church. Run, run run! Leeeea… oh, bugger.

Run, run! Music bellowing in my ear. ‘Like a burrrrrdd on the wiy-errr… like a drunk in a…’.

It’s just over a mile in all, and I arrive back wheezing for breath but alive and well. I don’t have time to do it twenty-five more times, as my mum and dad are staying, but I don’t reckon it would be much of a problem. And people make such a fuss about preparing for the London Marathon.

My mate Tink completed the London Marathon last year. He was really chuffed. Then they gave him his official finishing photo, which showed him being overtaken by two blokes dressed as a giant millipede.

I totter in, and wish the cottage had a shower.

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