Wednesday, 30 September 2009

Pretending to be Heathcliff

Yes, I am back in studentdom and, according to all cliche, should be rolling around in a cesspit of a bed, groaning, with my mobile phone stuck to my cheek as it sends off its seventh snooze alarm.

However, despite the previous post demonstrating just how much of a college movie life I lead, I am awake, dressed, and full of the joys of bleak late September and blogging.

This is because I went for a run at 8.49 this morning. Perfectly timed so as to avoid anyone making their way to lectures, and early enough to stop me procrastinating, my feeble excuse for a jog furthered my love of Newcastle; not least because of a Geordie wonderland known as the Town Moor.

Yes, just out of the centre of the city is a massive patch of land, (bigger indeed than Hyde Park and Hampstead Heath put together - suck on that one, Romantics) which is frequented by joggers, cyclists, dog walkers and most brilliantly, cows.

Therefore, starting my jogging circuit through the angry gridlock of yummy mummy Jesmond traffic - a wonderful freedom to pant deliriously past Chelsea Tractors - across the Great North Road and into the freedom of big skies, morning sunrise and long grasses by the six minute mark is my preferred wake-up call.

The cows are incredibly tame, and for a Shire bird there's something very comforting about the possibility of patting a curly-haired forehead with the landscape of St James' Park, tower blocks and Gateshead in the background. Added to the fact that any sweat is immediately combated by a bracing North-East wind, and it's practically perfect.

A bypass through the alleys behind the redbrick terraces of my humble abode, and I've basically turned into Billy Elliot. The previously gym-only trainers have now been marred with khaki cow poo, sure, as have my socks and lower calf (bud-um-bum-ching), but I think that's a fair price to pay.

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