Without my really noticing, this year’s London Marathon has crept up on me. Crept may be the wrong word as it is closing on me at a more impressive pace than I can manage on any of my training runs.
As usual I am using charity as a pretext for self-harm. If you want to help me maintain that pretence you can do so by visiting here. It is secure, works with credit cards issued anywhere and, more importantly, is for a very good cause.
There were about 20 of us scattered across the stacking chairs. The Monsignor was a dapper man with a sense of humour. Behind him, many Catholic churches would have a triptych: a richly decorated image of the divine intended to evoke awe. Here there was a picture window. Someone had sensibly concluded that no quantity of paint and imagination was going to match the sight of Blackcomb mountain. As the mass progressed the blue sky darkened and cloud softened and then dissolved the mountain. Snow began to fall. By the time we were exchanging the sign of peace the snow had thinned and the forest around the church was still.
This is the speed a heart should beat.
For days now I have been teasing P, telling her that I have been too busy to buy her a Valentine’s day gift. This is something of ritual. I always engage in the same pretence so as to ensure a “surprise” for her. So familiar is the pattern that conversation now contains an implicit wink.
Today, after a panicky phone call I discover that a computer error has meant that the gift I ordered will not be arriving until tomorrow. So P really is getting a surprise this year. And I am getting kit-e-kat for dinner.