In hindsight, I do not think it was a good idea to go on a run this morning.

David swears on a 10k after a night out.

I can see him now, sat on his quilted sofa with his right leg crossed over the left to reveal his navy cashmere quilted socks. He leans in and points a finger at nothing in particular.

“Coffee. Ten K. Cold shower. That’s it.”

David really can be such a prick some times.

Not as much as me, taking the advice of an older brother who only ever sips one glass of single malt before filling his stomach on chocolate and going to bed before eleven.

I realise now a run is perhaps too big an undertakigg my after last nights antics.

How did I even get home? I must owe someone money for a taxi.

At least all of my thoughts and resurfacing memories keep me going at a steady pace. I’m not as good as I am on eight hours of sleep with less than a bottle or two in my stomach, but it’s decent.

The cold air nips at my cold hands, the cracked crevices of my knuckles as I wind through the park. All of my fingers and cheeks are scarlet already.

I am way too rough for this.

I run through dog walkers and family’s alike, people with much better sense than to have mixed their drinks last night. There are other runners too, other idiots who think this is the best way to spend a Sunday morning.

Somehow, as if by magic, I approach my local pub and feel guided by the waft of roast chicken and vegetables. The ravenous rumble in my stomach asks ‘how on earth did I end up here?’

I stop my tracker and head inside.

I barely broke a sweat.