Richard Wright

Well, sort of. I’ve pulled something along the inside of my leg that’s forced me to abort this week’s running altogether, which makes me a little grumpy. The leg in question is strapped up to take some pressure off, and I’m hoping I’ll be out again on Monday. This may be insanely optimistic. Last time I pulled something in the same sort of area, last May, it was nearly three months before I could properly run again, but for most of that I wasn’t treating it properly. Once I had it strapped, it cleared up in a couple of weeks. This doesn’t feel quite so bad, so fingers crossed.

Ironically, I didn’t actually injure the leg while running. Twice a week I do a core workout, for those muscles which aren’t really improved by running itself, but which conversely improve the running if you look after them. On this occasion, it’s had quite the opposite effect.

Still that’s a couple of more hours for writing over the next few days. This evening, I have the house to myself, a bottle of wine, a pizza, and a word processor open on the current novel. As such, I’m not really spending the evening alone in a Glasgow suburb. No, I’m in a freezing cottage in Wales, which may or may not be haunted, enjoying the good company of Tanith, Matthew, Maxwell, Nicholas, and Cynthia. Goat may turn up soon, and I’ll try my hardest to keep a straight face if he does.

To do otherwise would be impolite, after all.