A weekend of stretched limbs and long sleeps seemed to be beckoning me. But t'was not to be. Instead of a period of comparative leisure with the mind gremlins comfortably exhausted by prolonged physical effort in the garden and no dreaded and unwelcome telephone calls for at least another day I have committed myself and the seventh day to some eight hours of driving with an indoor race occupying the gap between the end of the fourth hour of driving and the commencement of the fifth hour.
If I was not providing the transport for two others I do not think that I would be contemplating a four hour journey home in the dark. I suspect that the four hours might even drift towards five. I can't say that I enjoy long drives, especially ones that have to be undertaken post the setting of the sun. It's not a reflection of age. I can't remember ever being other than somewhat timorous of long night drives. I acknowledge that I am not a natural driver.
Maybe indoor bowls should replace athletics as my sport of choice. T'would be more parochial.
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