Father, its has been six weeks since my last confession.
For the last three weeks, I've been back on site at our client in the centre of Edinburgh. I'm engaged on a long server software upgrade programme which involves lots of small projects, and I'm finding the change to shorter-term, closely-scrutinised work very stimulating. After the alternating lethargy and panic of being solely charged with inventing something, this is a great improvement, and my morale is on the rise.
I'm now focussing on the Edinburgh Forthside Half Marathon five weeks from now. After the pain of last year's Glasgow event, I'm making sure I'm well-prepared, and for the last couple of Saturdays, I've managed to run outdoors for two hours continuously. This is more or less the length of a live concert by one of my favourite prog rock bands, so I can listen to a lovingly remastered live recording as I thud along the canal path, and the combined experience is about as much fun as you can have by yourself. I love having the Union Canal towpath just at the end the road, and being able to progressively push how far along it I can run each time. I think I made it to the outskirts of Ratho yesterday:
That makes it about seven miles each way, so I should be good for the race.
I made a modest return to Doctor Who Magazine this month, as the latest TV critic. I'm pleased to be part of the magazine again now that the series is on air, and to be covering the TV series itself. I'm still following my path through the original TV series, and the weekend's ironing will find me in 1971, but I shall have to suspend this personal archaeology while I watch and rewatch the new series and try and produce some insights.I am developing a cold. It's in beta-test at the moment, and should be ready for public launch any day now. I actually want to go to work tomorrow, but fear I may manage a gallant appearance at a morning meeting before vacating my desk for the comfort of a hot bath and an afternoon of menthol inhalation. So no running for me this weekend. Arse.