Slaughtering The Fatted Calf

By which I mean the troublesome lower leg muscles. Avid readers will have put up with me emoting on this subject before. Anecdotal evidence (that is to say whingeing at rugby club bars) tells me that this is the injury common to retired rugby players. And not just the fat old buggers like me - the same problem affects some far finer specimens of male athlete.

ouch!

I have been known to announce that I am giving up road running (it's really shuffling with style) because of the regularity of the painful tweaked gastrocnemius. My last retirement was in the Autumn of last year. I was going to confine myself to short outings on the treadmill. But as I contemplate the dire state of my belly after Christmas I feel the pull of the open road - only outdoor running gives you that righteous glow. So here we go again. Same old, same old: this time I'm going to take it easy. Baby steps etc etc. Thus far we are seventeen minutes into this latest dabble. All clear thus far. Insofar as there is a plan I aim to add five minutes to the longest run each week, stopping at an hour. I'll keep you posted. Lycra and Oakleys are, of course, mandatory.

We're just back from a great weekend at the country estate. After a nice mooch round Beaumaris we took our repast at the Panton Arms in Pentraeth - I've been complimentary about this plain looking pub before but the praise bears repetition. I had slow roasted belly pork on mustard mash which would have passed muster in any wannabe fine dinery. Trust me - when it comes to belly pork, I'm a professional. You can tell by my own belly. Oh, and the beer's good as well.