Lorry mirrors

I hate the word lorry but when legs ache as mine were this evening and I spot another broken, knocked off, discarded mirror on the pavement, as I did last night at the opposite end of town, it’s the most natural word to spring to mind. Quite why there’s such a proliferation on Maidstone’s paths remains a mystery.

But my leg ache isn’t such a mystery. Mainly, I believe it’s the mileage. Second on the suspect list is the cold. I got back into the office at about 4.45 and hadn’t warmed up as I got changed which resulted in a mental note of how my legs felt tight as I bent to pick my bag up. Not tight as in shortened muscles, just in a reluctance to move beyond the frigid rigid stance they were locked into.

I’m pissed off with being cold now and will sulk until I sweat. I dislike being too hot normally but as I drove from site, I had one of those moments where I couldn’t truly remember what it feels like when I climb into the car and can’t decide whether to whack up the air conditioning or open all the windows to get cool quickest.

Just couldn’t positively associate the memory to the feeling.

The run was shit – my sore lower legs shortened my mental ability to 3 miles. I could have plodded on but wouldn’t have got any benefit, I felt, so I didn’t. Just came home, had the athlete’s dinner of lasagne and chips and beans (all warmed up – no fuss over cooking for a change, simply couldn’t be bothered. It’s been weeks since ready meal heaven, so it’ll do no harm, i’m sure) and here I am, waiting for the washing machine to finish so I can retire to bed.

Hey, ho. Let’s go. (To bed).

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s