Sunday, September 18

Sunday, September 18
Mrs Spanish Bill hit the big 4-0 on Friday and threw a party to celebrate the fact.
As her toy boy -- they say life begins at 40, but I'm not ready to write off the 7 months I've still got in my 30s -- I'm taking the old lady to a mystery destination next week (**taps nose knowingly**).
That's still to come.
On the actual day of her birthday I treated her to a lobster and dressed crab breakfast, with a tropical fruit salad and a Virgin Mary on the side, having sent her to bed slightly pickled in champers with a Peking duck dinner and a rich chocolate and orange ice cream in her belly.
You gotta admit: the boy done well.
I mean, c'mon! Lobster breakfast?
As MC Hammer once said; Can't touch this, daan-de-da-dun. Never thought I'd say this, but ain't the Waitrose in Canary Wharf good?
Anyway, I managed 7 miles on Thursday, with the help of a very electic mix of Tears for Fears, Freddie Hubbard, Strings of Life, Edwin Starr, and Lord Tanamo, among others.
I just love the random play function on my MP3 player.
I ran to work again, altering my route slightly.
This time I ran all the way down Kingsland High Road to Shoreditch, then veered on to Commercial Street between the City and Banglatown, heading east on the Commercial Road and turning right on Cannon Street towards the home of The Sun and The Times newspapers -- and cutting across Cable Street, where the fascist Black Shirts got a good kicking in the 1930s -- before heading east again and catching the Thames Path to Canary Wharf at Limehouse.
To be honest, I was a little disappointed.
It felt like 8 miles physically. That's what I had hoped for.
But it was 7 miles in 1 hour and 12 mins.
What this means is that I'm going to have to scrap for every extra single mile.
It's a year since I began this running quest.
But I've clearly only just begun.