As long as it doesn't get infected.

23km. A nice taper Sunday along the scenic canal path. Way out past the boats, all by myself, lovely, lovely, and then, for no reason whatever, I'm on the ground, twisted and bleeding in a patch of stinging nettles. I blame my Vinyl Café podcast.

Yeah, it hurts, but, I'm kind of proud of it, of the horrified looks I get from the other runners. Yes. I am hardcore. Just an exterior manifestation of an interior athlete psychosis? No pain no...?

Oh Teka, my Teka.

Broken tail, missing tooth, unflappable, hilarious, and sweet, sweet, sweet. We loved you, little guy. Like crazy cakes. Like one million of the craziest, bestest, crazy cakes, forever and ever and ever.

RIP
Oronhyatheka Lion-Face Hooper-Hoyano
2004-2009

And then more stairs

So. Fierce independence, it turns out, is not always the best technique.

This week I'm moving. Not very far, mind, just a seven minute walk down the hill, easy! Easy! I thought, I'll just carry my stuff down! All my stuff:

Down three flights of stairs,
down my (old) street,
past the pharmacy,
two coffee shops,
a penny on the road,
the barber's,
the news agent's,
the hair-dressers',
the pub,
the Co-op,
a vacuum cleaner shop,
a vet's,
Julian Road Stores,
another hair-dressers',
a hotel,
an expensive restaurant,
up my (new) road,
and up three flights of stairs.

Again and again. And again. I wonder what all the barbers and hair-dressers think of this girl going back and forth with her giant purple suitcase and various instruments. If I wasn't me, I might write a story about me. As it stands, however, I am me, and
I'm so tired I don't even feel like running. Which is, of course, pretty darn tired. I phoned Neil. Tomorrow Neil is bringing his van.