I had a dream last night. I dreamt the pressure of expectation was crushing me.
I opened my eyes and realised it was First-born, sitting on my chest.
Was she holding the dreaded Toy Story 2 DVD? No.
Was it a favourite book? No.
What she was holding were my trainers (now a little less than new.)
"You said you were going to go running this morning. I didn't want you to forget."
As if I could, what with the unique fragrance well-used trainers tend to acquire after a while.
So today; 3 miles. Everything hurts. Cycling is so much more civilised.
And now I'm off to London to be cultural in a gallery, materialistic in the shops and debauched in the bars.
More later. Assuming my heart didn't explode somewhere along that run and I simply haven't realised it yet...
