I went for a run this afternoon, seeing as there isn't much that I can do with Lennart being away and that. My activities are often restricted to day trips up to the coast with mum and dad, or changing the players on FIFA around so that I can actually have a chance of beating him when he comes back.

Two things came to me on my little jog around Wulfsdorf, the first of which is how out of shape I am and realising that Barraclough is going to bench me for the first handful of games until I pull my shit together and get back into the routine. The second thing was how much of a gronk I looked running around fields in hiking boots and a scarf. Oh and did I mention this bright green jacket that makes me look like a few layers of inflated sausages have been wrapped around me? I often imagine myself as being an omniscient god, and as I detached myself from my corporeal duties and looked at my little frail body thumping away at the frozen ground, a thought came to me: What if I died at that very moment?

A morbid thought but one that everyone has surely addressed sometime in their life, and today's run happened to be my time. In my little cloud up in the skies I visualised the after-effects of my death. The postman informing my parents and their faces of complete devastation. The insurance man handing out my death money and my parents' faces lighting up with glee. The headlines on the local paper the following morning: Michelin Man Dies of Unfashionable Running Attire. It was then that I returned from the clouds to my body since it was getting somewhat chilly up there and I didn't want to catch a cold.

My attention span wanes as a boy's truly does - several weeks ago I wanted to be a DJ, today I wanted to design in-vogue running costumes, tomorrow I'll probably run off and join the circus. But something that will never change are my memories of evening runs through this quaint little town, and the subtle sunsets which always greet me with a warmth that Kathmandu will never achieve.