Run Wild, Run Free

I hate Tuesday night telly. Come hell or high water, the Leitrim Lady makes it home in time for Prison Break (which is admittedly chock full of ridey tattooed men, but is so risible and convoluted plot-wise that it could star Adrien Brody and I wouldn't watch it*). How can something with so many "plot" "twists" be so fucking dull?

I watch Hollyoaks. I'm not hard to please.

Then it's followed by Desperate Horseshit, with that abomination Teri Hatcher doing a very convincing impression of someone I'd have to kick in the shins if I ever met her in real life. The only character in it that I felt any modicum of affection for (Lynette) got cancer.

So what to do instead? I decided I'd tire myself out so that I could retire early to bed and not feel that I was missing anything by... going for a run. Well, a jog. Jog #3 of my secret (not anymore) New Year's Resolution To Start Running Jogging. I think my curves are very attractive but it seems that many would beg to differ, so motivated by that and by FatMammyCat's making it sound so bloody easy, I decided I'd give it a go. Besides, I'd given my little bedroom telly to Crash Grandadicoot when he started failing a while back and my room is a complete fucking tip at the moment, so were I to retire there to, I dunno, read a book or something, I'd feel I had to make some effort to tidy it. Going for a jog just seemed easier. It would have been too, had I not the lung capacity of an asthmatic midget smoker. Runs #1 and #2 were miserable, snotty, cold affairs. Run #3 was, well, more of the same.

I'm back in my room now, burrowing into the mess with my laptop and my book (Michael Collins' The Keepers of Truth) and if I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth slowly for the next few hours I'm hoping that my face might return to some semblance of a normal colour by morning.

*Lie