and disastrous. I started off imitating my favourite Ethiopian running heroes. Now, suddenly, I’ve switched to imitating Fats Domino. Then, to relieve my pain and depression, my OMO pictures me at the finish line: there I am, breasting the tape just millimetres

.”I have to say that by the end of the run I was peeved. Seaton has steadfastly refused me a picture by-line. “Such a flawless physique as yours would only depress our aspiring readers,” he maintains. So I’ve never had to endure the bittersweet

, hero) has done his back in again. And my Achilles is playing me up something rotten.”“I can just picture it,” mused Sandra, drily. “Like an episode of Last Of The Summer Wine.” The course encompassed the whole of Dartmoor in a wide, sweeping circle