Squirrel in a Hurry
The rolling in of seasonal ground mist just after dawn this morning saved a blip of an empty gym where I was the only human equivalent of a hamster on a wheel, and instead managed a blip of a squirrel in a hurry.
Yes, the image of myself moulded into my bathing costume as a practice run for Stobo has propelled me into a too late effort to distance myself from one of Beryl Cook's fat ladies. Sunday is an excellent time to go to the gym before dawn as the toned youth are still abed and a chubby elderly lady is invisible.
The unpalatable truth, however, is that any fat burned is replaced by muscle which weighs more, and anyway with only a fortnight to go the spa gathering, it is far too late to produce any more noticeable svelte look.
With that fatalist approach, it was off for Sunday toast, not to our Temple of toast near the canal but to the young upstart Bellany café where the tranches are more refined. ( note my use of French which sounds so much more poetic than using English 'slices'.)
This was a morning with a distinct nip in the air and a heavy dew, possible the first of many cold autumnal days.