We're coming to the end of a glorious weekend of sunshine. A nation waits with bated breath to see if it is here to stay or if we have just experienced British Summertime in it's entirety.
This weekend, I have mostly been walking. Well, that's not quite true - in fact, walking has only accounted for four of the last forty eight hours. But it felt like more.
D, you see, has appointed himself Chief Whipper Into Shape. This involves the two of us doing a dogged seven mile trek along the river every other afternoon. But in honour of the beautiful weather, this weekend we did it on two consecutive days.
I should say at this point that sometimes I quite like a walk. When the scenery is pleasant, the pace pitched somewhere around "gentle saunter", and there is a pub or two to take in, I can think of few more pleasing ways to while away an afternoon. But D is not doing this particular walk for Fun - nope, this is all in the name of Fitness.
I'm just not built for serious walking. I have short little legs and therefore a short little stride. While D powers purposefully along, I am having to trot, whimpering, at his heels. And my other serious problem is that I am the lucky (?) owner of what we like to call in the trade Comedy Breasts. This means my centre of gravity is all off - I'm in constant danger of toppling forward, and very frequently do.
Having said all that, there is no denying the plus side. The scales are descending at a gratifying rate. And yesterday I managed to quaff four pints of delicious, sun-dappled cider without going into points deficit. What? If this is, indeed, British Summertime then it's only right to indulge in the very British pastime of drinking until your nose turns a fetching shade of lobster...
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone