TBH not much to report. 3.4 miles through the terribly ugly Surrey countryside after work. Very humid, enough so that my colleague Fiona suppressed a giggle at my drippingness when I came back to the office (in fairness she said she would have been the same).
So, what happened? Well I swallowed a fly.
Followed the whole rigmarole familiar to every runner:
1. Fly goes into your mouth
2. You rather urgently try to judge whether it is spit or swallow time
3. Experimental cough
4. No movement
5. Swallow then
6. Did you actually feel anything go down? Not sure
7. Stop, have some water
8. Spit again and cough for good measure
9. Wonder if it was a biter, and if it bit going down.
10. Surely that is an instant route to death via asphixiation?
11. Cough, spit, water
12. Bored now, time to run again.
Second invert? The earthworm determined to cross the lane. I mean really, surely they know that I am an interferer by now? Had to pick it up and put it somewhere more suitable. Probably ruined its whole life (consider the fact that it could have been sent on a quest by its one true love, to cross the road and retrieve a piece of grit; when some irritating pink thing with a backbone picks it up and moves it miles from its goal; therefore it never wins the heart of its prince/princess).