Yesterday my FitFlops and I gamely meandered across the hallways and byways of the London underground in a synchronised stagger of tiredness and muscle fury. My muscles have staged a counter-revolution and it looks like they're using some dirty tricks to get their own way. It all started innocently enough...
My morning wake-up wasn't the creaking pain of the day before. Instead I lithely danced out of bed and around the house. It was one of those mornings that I love. That we all love. Everything came easy, everybody was in a good mood, the sun was shining and I felt utterly alive. Until I got to Victoria Station.
Crazed humans in orange jackets had sealed off the bowels of the underground and were guarding it like indifferent killer dogs. Stay away, they don't notice you, come too close and they growl with barely restrained contempt. So, my FitFlops and I had to uncover an alternate route, and fast! My train had already been delayed and work waits for no man.
And off we went! Running across the platform I'd already crossed and into the main area, dodging other commuters moving at the same pace and with the same expression of intense worry, across the zebra crossing (that the taxi drivers don't seem to be able to see), and to the bus stop. Pant pant.
"NO. Your bus is down there, round the corner and up the street."
I had gone to the wrong place. Back across the zebra crossing (dodged two taxis while moving at speed. No easy feat in these shoes, let me tell you), down the street, around the corner, "Oh, that's my bus!", put on a burst of speed, hit little old lady with flying laptop bag, and onto the bus.
"No, your Oyster card has run out."
Off the bus, past the annoyed passengers, down the street, back into the station, stand in queue to recharge card. And repeat.
By the time I got to work and sat down at my desk, my muscles had gone on strike, I had a blister on my toe, and I wanted to weigh myself because I was soooo excited about how many calories I'd burned in that adventure.
"Let's do it again!"