I have a bad case of blisters. Painful to walk and, without a huge amount of plaster padding, running seems out of the question.
But how did it happen? Not, as you might safely assume, due to lots and lots of training but down to a missing bus and a night on the town.
In our village we have a new bus service to replace the old one which "wasn't financially viable". I notice that there was a bus into Oxford at 7.25pm and a bus home at 11.25pm.
Hurrah, thought I, a night out without a wobbly cycle ride home or a £15 taxi bill.
But after a very pleasant evening in the Royal Oak on Banbury Road, I headed to the bus station to catch my 11.25pm ride home.
But then I saw the small print which had been missing from my timetable at home. It read Fridays only.
Right I thought. I'm a fit bloke and it is a mild night so I walked the eight miles home at a military pace.
I noticed a painful rubbing from my newly acquired Doc Martins (mid-life crisis don't you know) and then, about 30 yards from my front door there was a pace, a rub and more pain than you could shake a stick at.
My heel looks like a tuna steak (sorry for the image) and my wife is laughing at a) my hangover, b) my stupidity in misreading the timetable and c) the fact that I walked for two hours at midnight to save £15.
Fair enough I suppose.