I go for a run.

Run! Run! Run!

Up the hill past the shop, then left onto what would be a delightful little green lane but is, in fact, dog shit alley.

There is a new flashing sign!!! It flashes when you go above 30 miles an hour. (I was not running faster than this, a car just happened to pass me and got flashed). It was very exciting, and the car slowed immediately. It was still going faster than me though. Next time I will try to beat the sign and make it flash.

The flashing sign would have been more effective in traffic management had the flashing sign erector people not accidentally placed it the wrong way round. So it flashes you as you leave the village for the derestricted bit, rather than as you enter the built up area.

'Built up' being a relative term.

Run! Run! Run!

I jog down the grassy lane, leaping gracefully. I am in a good mood and have remembered to go for a wee wee before I left, unlike Paula Radcliffe who I have written about before and who seems to think that she is a small child and can go for a wee wee any time and anywhere she pleases.

Honestly, I am a better runner than her.

I have not been running for ages and I can feel it. Craig and Charlie burst from the MP3 player with their motivational running music, but I am gradually slowing down.

And then it happens.

I stagger to a halt. My shoulders slump and I shake my head. I have not pulled a muscle or had a heart attack. I am suddenly and inexplicably too knackered to carry on running.

This has never happened to me before. I wheeze and pull my lead-filled legs back towards the direction of home.

I am not a better runner than Paula Radcliffe after all. How depressing. I have broken down just like she did at the Olympics. Boooo!!! For a few minutes I thought I had discovered a world-beating talent that I did not know I had. But I am just her equal.

I check my pants just to see if I have soiled myself. But I am clean. So I am a bit better than her after all.