After my recent discovery that I like the gym, I had to come home where the nearest gym, instead of being just across the road, is miles away and includes a nice journey on the public transport system; I don't intend to join that gym but since it's not exactly close I can't even go swimming. So that leaves cycling, but my tyres need pumping, and running. I don't like running. I don't even run on the treadmill, admittedly because I have only ever been on a treadmill four times in my entire life and even though I am assured it won't be like the cartoons and it won't get sped up until I go round and round the machine before eventually being flung off only to hit the wall, I've still not worked up to running on the thing yet. So today I dragged myself away from an article kindly pointing out all of Macbeth's tragic flaws and James McAvoy's portrayal of Macbeth playing on my dvd player and went for a run. I say 'run' in the loosest sense of the word. If you run round my block, it is a mile. I ran the length of my, quite long, street, then had to stop to walk for a bit. I basically did a mile which consisted of running whilst the the cold air found its way straight down my throat and walking whilst pondering whether the fact that I could feel the cold air in my chest meant that I was going to get a chest infection because I'd tried to run. I would have pondered the threat of pnemonia but it had stopped raining.