Sunday, June 19

Sunday, June 19
Phew, what a scorcher! And what a stinker too.
I struggled -- really struggled -- to go for a run today. You know how it is: you go to Billingsgate early in the morning to invest in some shellfish, prepare some brochettes, ceviche, salads, and assorted grub, invite some friends round, have a barbie, stuff yourself silly, get boozed up on one of the longest days of the year, and go on the inevitable midnight fag run, by the next morning your not feeling that great.
It's a BIG ask to contemplate a run first thing.
Mind you, it could have been a lot worse, given that Marky T and Roger Melly batted on and went clubbing. I politely declined. I didn't have the bottle nor the wherewithal to push back the realms of time.
"We didn't feel out of place at all," said Rog, who's also knocking on 40.
Needless to say, it wasn't a natural vibe.
I barely managed one and a half miles when I got out. It was 8 in the morning, my head was banging, and it was shaping up to be a very hot day again.
I opted for Finsbury Park. It didn't disappoint. As usual for this time of the year, when a beer can in the hand is almost de riguer around these parts, it was a right mess.
Plastic bags and cans everyfuckingwhere.
I can't see them clearing it up until Monday, so the debris can only multiply today.
That's one of the beautiful things about London: its parks. When the sun comes out, they are positively buzzing and dripping with society.
They are the urban equivalent of a Mediterranean beach in August; great chilling and general people watching. It's a magical sight.
The aftermath ain't so pretty though.