Having been lame with my calf injury for the past four weeks and having eaten a grandiose super-sufficiency on holiday I went out for a run yesterday with not inconsiderable trepidation. I did a steady three miles and felt no ill effects. I was stiff of muscle when I woke today but decided I was well enough to venture forth once more. Wrong. The calf twinged (no more) in the third mile and, defying past macho practice, I stopped immediately and sloped back home to ice the muscle - few things are more embarrassing than being the middle-aged man walking in lycra. I am controlling my habitual pissed-off pessimism - for now - but if the problem persists I reserve the right to moon around swathed in self-pity.
I got back to this country just in time to see our cricketers revert to type and get well and truly marmalised by the Australians. Resistance was there none. For the good of English cricket I may have to decamp once more. Would a few days in Anglesey be enough do you think? I'll do anything for the good of the country.
Final reflections on the West Coast interlude. Bloody good. Favourite bit? The Oregon Coast. Best beer - Flat Tail Brewing's Tailgater Kolsch (admit it you didn't expect me to nominate a lager - neither did I but it fitted its moment perfectly). Best city - Vancouver. Best food - Paley's in Portland, by a country mile. Best Shakespeare play - still Antony and Cleopatra.
I bought some necessary supplies in Sainbury's on Monday and the young man on the till hoped I would 'have a nice day'. I was tempted to favour Peter Ustinov's recommended response, 'thank you but I have other plans', but bit my tongue and reflected that good service works both ways - both server and served need to conspire in the transaction. In America I was a willing conspirator. I shall endeavour to be so on home soil.
Have a good day now.
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