with his legs in the air. He surveyed me through one, half-closed eye. I could swear he was smirking.Around him was scattered the usual litter of chewed-up mail. Only one letter remained untouched. It was from the organisers of the Trans 333 desert run
and was divided into seven legs, each led by a fresh, new member of the mountain rescue service. These were infuriatingly fit and enthusiastic young people friends of the irritatingly youthful Fishpool, I supposed, as they bounded, gravity-defying, across
does the same, but from the inside.As I read the entry on filiariasis, I realised with a flush of panic that my shoes felt tight. I was certain that by the time we landed at Orly, the tiny worms infesting my lymphatic system would have caused my legs
and marsh marigold. Over there – that’s where, on my first-ever run with the Highgate Harriers, I told them how I’d had the dog’s back legs amputated but he still enjoyed a drag around the pond. And over there – that’s where Mad Rob told me how he’d ridden a
