Near the end of my run this lunchtime I sent Evil Bob a text which simply said ‘Damn you and your Bastard running’.

Which says it all really.

I did three miles, real life running on an actual pavement rather than on a treadmill. It was…. Ok. The route out is mostly uphill and that was pretty evil. There was a man walking behind me and I was so conscious of the fact that he was able to keep up with me while walking that I kept going a bit faster. Well I’m not built for ‘a bit faster’ and I managed to a) push my heart rate much higher than is sustainable and b) bugger my ankle again. Eventually I stopped and stood to the side to let him pass. 'Humiliating' and 'mortifying' don't quite cover the feeling of having to wobble to the side of the pavement to let someone walk past you.

After that it got a bit easier. The route is a mile and a half out, mostly uphill, and a mile and a half back, thrillingly slightly downhill. The way back was fine and I managed to run all of that without needing a walk break but the way out was hard.

And now I’m in pain, despite Evil Bob dolling me out some brufen and some sage advice regarding my injuries and, once again, my weight.

There was, if I’m perfectly honest, about a two minute period where I quite enjoyed the run – at least, I managed a smile rather than my normal stacatto grimace.

Most exciting is that a white van man was kind enough to whistle at me as I ran past. It might, I’ll concede, have been an ironic whistle, but it kept me going for the next quarter mile more than my little runner’s bottle of warm water did.