The antibiotics my wife and I are taking have stopped us tasting anything. Smoothies made with fresh fruit taste no better than wallpaper paste. Pasta is like cardboard in our mouths. The only advantage of this state of affairs is that it’s also borked my wife’s sense of smell, so she can leave a fully loaded nappy on a shelf in Destroyer’s bedroom and not notice the stench. Oh, hang on, was that an advantage?
After such a thrilling day of epicurean delights, I went to the track for a hard session. Unwisely, I ate plenty of food before I headed over there, but since I was sandbagging in the B group rather than going all-out in the A group, there was no intestinal distress today. Which is good, because the small children, the Ministry of Education and everyone else near the track wouldn’t want to see the consequences of my poor decisions littered over the track.

(Then again, the kind of children that hang out at the track aren’t the innocent angels one might hope for; one time I was warming up and passed two twelve year old boys, just as one asked the other "what’s the biggest thing you’ve stuck up your butt?" Oh, the neverending glamour of proctology as a career, I suppose.)

I had an odd session at the track; I went out pessimistic, coming back after a week without running and still full of pills, and then knocked out some stupidly quick laps. And some which were a bit slower. Rather than getting everything in a nice 2-second range, I had 1:30s, 1:39s, everything in between. Blame it on the drugs, I suppose.

Afterwards, I went home to eat food I couldn’t taste, and take more pills, and wait for La Serpiente to burst out of her room to wail at me. Thus far, peace and quiet. I’m left to stagger around the house, amazed that half an hour on the track can leave me feeling like an old man. I suppose I shouldn’t leave it so long next time.

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