Skating

This cold weather is definitely making me a little ratty. I'm finding myself with little tolerance for people faffing about in tube stations and making illogical choices when walking along the pavements.

The day started ludicrously early. The slight issue with shifting to a more nocturnal existence is that, from time to time, there's an unavoidable early start. This morning it was to go to the osteopath, who pummelled my lower back whilst complimenting me on having the highest pain threshold of anyone he'd ever met. Interesting, I thought.

I went to meet Michelle of the Turkie for lunch at Somerset House, and we treated ourselves to a 40-minute skate in the open air. Perhaps not the most sensible thing to do after a trip to the osteopath - I'm sure I'll wake up in the morning completely unable to move - but we managed to choose the one part of the day when the sun was shining brightly, and we had enormous fun drifting around in circles to the sounds of popular classics!

It's such an odd thing, skating. I haven't done it for years, and was instantly struck by how hard the ice actually is! I subsequently ended up looking like Todd Carty. Michelle, on the other hand, can even skate backwards, which impressed me greatly.

I'm currently in Hove, staying a few nights at Fiona's flat whilst working on the Pepys Motet with PK. Fiona is, of course, somewhere impossibly glamorous with Placebo. Except she's not. She's in Essen, which is, according to her, greyer than Corby! That's some claim! Corby is a proper shit hole. It's also the fastest growing town in the UK. Fact!

I arrived here and immediately took myself for a run. If this cold won't leave me any other way, I'll sweat the bastard out!

I ran from Fiona's all the way to Brighton Pier, forgetting how wondrously easy it is to run on a flat surface with no gradient. Highgate is hill after hill, whichever direction you run in. It was also an absolute treat to jog along the sea front. The sun a distant memory in the Western Sky, the moon reflected on the velvety water, the illuminations flashing. The old pier looked particularly eerie as I ran past, silhouetted against the night sky. I passed the Brighton Conference Centre and doffed an imaginary cap at the place where ABBA won Eurovision. One day I'll stand on that stage!

I've been at Fiona's flat all night, under a lovely blanket, waiting for the storage heaters to get their act together. How long do these things take? What is a storage heater anyway?