Autumnal antics

So I told you that I'd blog more often. I suppose I lied. I have been busy, though, and because all of these Google accounts are rigged together, having to log out of my blog to check the wretched society email and vice versa is a chore. So there are the excuses.

My life is rushing along at its usual London pace, and though I will say I have killed some malnourishment gremlins, I'm still such a bloody cheapskate. Rent and water are due and I typically pay on the last possible day before the court summons arrives. I need more clothes and a new phone, but it'll probably be January before I get any of those, knowing my standards. I still only ever top up £5 at a time on my Oyster.

This year's autumn has been quite delightful, however. I usually see autumn as a time for sighing, as a time for "oh God, here it comes, six months of eternal darkness and cold." But it's wonderfully mild at the moment. On a misty Hallowe'en morning (contradiction much?), I managed to revel in some relatively high humidity during a training session on the Hampstead Heath Extension. Probably a mistake that I wore a cotton tee, then. Another thing I like about autumn is the colours. In Regent's the other day, walking up towards Primrose Hill, the sea of leaves on the broadwalk was rather beautiful, and most tempting to kick up. It's quite a romantic time of year, much more so than any other season. Why couldn't saint Valentine be buried on 14 November instead? It would be so much more fitting.

The races have well and truly begun. I've only done one full distance (8km) cross country race, and being on Parliament Hill, a wonderful landscape but admittedly not my favourite course to run on, I could probably have done better. This week I have two; one in Richmond Park and the other in Woodford Green. Here's hoping for improved performances.

Speaking of performances, the performance of a certain football team from N17 was almost non-existent today. I hate moping about football, it is so sad and pathetic. But I can't help but feel the negative emotions when everyone in the room is pouring scorn on your team. "I told you they were shit, Baz, but you didn't listen to me." Baz doesn't particularly care. His team doesn't promise trophies year after year and fail to deliver because they have more realistic expectations. And what, pray tell, is "shit" about being fourth in the league? Okay, immaturity over.

I apologise here to Bob Geldof, because I simply can't wait for Monday when I will have this silly Spanish essay finished. Better go finish it, hasta luego.