The clouds didn't retreat this time and there's a steady rain falling without thunder. My legs are stiff and head a bit fuzzy from the ridiculous selection of beers last night and a probably-unneccesary nightcap of Balvenie Doublewood. There was Port too, as there usually is if I'm with my sister. The Sox won though, and the bar cheered when Youk hit a dinger. There was a loud, bellowing Jersey girl and two hipsters in bad hats slouching by the bar, trying to look badass. There was a faux hippy with dreads and a beard who still managed to look too concerned about his appearance. It was an amusing supporting cast. As we left the bar there were four or five yardies hanging out in the square laughing in the warm summer night.
The lazy ass side of my brain is using the rain and the stiffness as an excuse to avoid running. The arguments for and against batter about like a tennis rally, or battle-to-the-death on a squash court. It's Tom Hanks vs. John Candy in Splash type-stuff. I sip my coffee and ponder. The small blue ball bounces above the red line and back, smacking John Candy right between the eyes.
The coffee went down quick and now there's mutterings of breakfast. All this leads me further away from my run. My sis wants potato cakes with leftover veg. I'm still full from last night's burger. She's checking the movie listings and I still haven't decided whether or not to go for a run. The rain's falling hard now though, and my coffee cup seems to have refilled itself.