I walked around the corner from Morrison’s, down Dartmouth or Hartington or Torbay road, on the way home. A thick-set man in his thirties came out of one of the houses on the left. He was bald, with a fold in the skin at the base of his skull. In one hand he carried a mobile phone, playing “Young Hearts Run Free, ” through its speaker, and in the other a snooker cue. He dragged it along the floor, tapped manhole covers, thwacked wheelie bins. I was scared. I kept my distance.
I’m not sure how to map my run for tonight. I bolted down to the lake, and then did nine power loops up and down the car-park approach. It felt great, but my blisters flared up again. I hope it doesn’t mean I need new shoes.