Never Underestimate A Good Pair Of Ankles

It's been a tiring week and I bike in very slowly. It’s pleasant but I'm feeling well knackered.

L's on the power walk again, bopping along to Winifred Holtby. Or perhaps not, as this turns out to be her latest talking book. It's set in 1932 and it's based around the members of the South Riding County Council. So it doesn't sound that riveting... L says that the council have just appointed a new headmistress, who's young with ginger hair, good ankles and a snip-snap manner. She thinks she can see where it's all going to lead... I wonder what she means by that... but as they say, never underestimate a good pair of ankles.

Our MD leaves at lunchtime, he's off swinging, on company time too. It's all right for some. Corporate golf day.

I cycle home with a colleague, the budding Duathlete. We go my winter route, as this is also his preferred way home. He sets a furious pace, which is impressive as he's on a mountain bike. I'd hate to have to ride such a heavy bike, that's not to mention all the drag from those big tyres. We kind of race and it gets almost dangerous at times. More him than me, honest, he can bump up and down curbs on his bike, I can't. Not that I would wish to. We part in Borrowash. When I get home, his pace making has helped me to a new PB for that route.

At home, L dishes up her speciality, pure unadulterated slag, her words not mine, before we wander up to Beeston for a few beers. The beer range isn't quite to L's liking tonight but I don't find it too bad. I think she's just sulky because she fancies some wine and it's just too damn expensive there. There are far too many beers under 4%. Does anybody prefer to drink such beers these days?