The Self-Inflicted Pain Of The Long-Distance Runner

I was getting all virtuous about my running and the schemes I concoct to distract myself whilst out on the mean streets - that, at least, was the general tone of my last blog. Well, I good and proper learnt a lesson on Sunday. I was thirty-eight minutes into a sixty-two minute outing (taken alone this is a good thing) when I glanced over my shoulder to make sure I was clear to cross Lichfield Road. Fate chose that moment to test the Pig with a raised paving slab and, the Pig being the Pig, he tripped over it and catapulted himself to the floor. The Pig fell on his left side. Some blood but not much. Chortley Chuckles immediately resolved to laugh it off and carried on. Net result, the Overgraduate has bloody painful ribs and can't play golf, can't cough, can't sleep comfortably, etc. Bloody idiot. As you can imagine, all three of us are being brave soldiers.