January 2009

[Sweder]

Despite the loitering lurghie I took to the hills this lunchtime. Relentless rain had left the turf sodden, like a shagpile carpet in a flooded basement. I splished and sploshed my way across the downs, building an impressive coating of muck and slime on my boots and bare legs. In good spirits I fought gamely, taking on the treacherous slickness of the mud-trails, sliding and skidding up and down the slopes like a demented, drunken skier. Miniature rivers ran down the chalkline, washing the flintstone and adding to the gloop soup on either side.

I pushed hard on the climbs, elbows pumping reluntant lungs like manic billows, steam pluming from my open mouth and off my rain-soaked back. Fat grey clouds sat on Mount Harry and Black Cap, grumpy squatters laden with mizzle, indolent, immovable. I scampered through their etherial amplitude, huffing and puffing, Gypsy and Willow close at heel (Tess, the wise old whippet, had made clear her intention to remain tucked up in the warm, dry embrace of her radiator-side bed).

Home in 42:20, an excellent time for the conditions and quite possibly my best since last summer's knee-knack. I still feel like I'm teetering on the cusp of something unpleasant but frankly I can't be arsed waiting for the full-blown plague. Kill or cure I say.