As I type...

... I consider the sudden and premature bought of joggers nipple I had earlier.

Usually an entirely expected treat as I make my way into my village on the last leg of my run.

Not this time.

Only four miles into my run and there we are.

Never mind, though. I stressed my right foot and was spared the delight of jogging through the neighbouring village clutching my chest like some A-cup amateur.

Instead, I limped the rest of the way home.

Right now, I'm listening to the album Glow by Reef, which is an unusual choice of music for this hour, but .. ah, Robot Riff has just come on. So that's alright.

A thought occurred to me earlier.

There's such a thing as Rambling. If you're English, then your mental image of the common-or-garden variety Rambler is made up of marching armies of old people thundering about the countryside like some sentinels of the Earth goddess.

But, there's also such a thing as nekkid Rambling, or extreme Rambling as I imagine some might call this god-forsaken pursuit.

The very thought of gravity-stricken old coffin-dodgers letting it all 'ang out as they cut across hill & dale gives me the heebie-jeebies.

But then I took time to consider this phenomena, such that it is.

What's the protocol for crossing a barbed-wire fence?

Please note: more serious considerations will no doubt pop into my head within the next week or two, so please try to be patient...