As per usual, I have been back at university for nearly two months now, and any physical delights are being reduced to a bare minimum (apart from sex, of course) Riding and working outdoors in the steady drizzle has become but a fleeting memory, something to mull pathetically over while I am chained to my desk in the library.
I have become like Inga in 'Greenvoe', reducing myself to an intellengtsian, romanticized view of the outdoors, and probably pissing off the rain-soaked factory workers that I run by in doing so. My new favourite activity is to look out of the window, and as as soon as it starts to rain, I start to run. Through puddles and peaty paths, feeling the water come through my trainers as they make a pleasing 'slap' on the ground, feeling the rain soaking through my thin t-shirt and making me into a prime contender for a wet-tshirt contest (though I doubt other contenders would be wearing sports bras underneath)
I feel like Sillitoe's runner as he tears off the bark from a tree and devours it - at one with the elements, all-consuming, devouring mother nature. Pretentious as that may be (actually, pretentious as that is, it's the closest thing I can get to my work down South, mucking out stall after stall, and watching the steam rise from the manure in my wheelbarrow.