Tuesday, 28 March 2017
Can you imagine the frustration of someone who has commited (or re-commited) to something, only to find that she is scuppered at every turn? That's me. Computer woes and a pulled hamstring have made it difficult for me to do much more than hobble and swear. The fact that I'm finally able to write here today is thanks to Marc and his talent for restoring order to the chaos I create around anything that needs electricity. I think it's a syndrome. If I could I'd write you all a letter, instead of typing furiously at my dining table. Then again, you wouldn't be able to read it, because I have the world's most appalling handwriting. It used to be lovely, but somewhere along the way I lost the knack. I doubt it will ever return. I toyed with some kind of calligraphy exercises, but then I remembered that I am very impatient. I don't stick with anything that I find difficult. I'll have a go, but if I don;t immediately like it/get it/understand it I'm off like a dirty shirt.
So the running is a constant surprise to me. If I'm brutally honest,