Halfway through, what it becomes is a block of rough grey on a pale yellow background, but then it swirls away to get made – through some invisible process – in to a neat new suit. “It needs taking in, just a little.” “How long will that take?” “Only a few days, call in at the end of the week.” Adverts for running shoes and running kit and running and running and the joys of running. A little plastic figurine popped out of a packet, played with, lost in the sand, eaten by the sea, bon voyage, bon apetit. The pleasure of writing things down, tippy tappy tippy tappy, getting somewhere. A block of rough grey on a pale yellow background. A neat new suit. “No, I would say that fits you perfectly.” “Perfect.” The calm rolling in of the year like a ball in to the pocket of a snooker table. No ending where there’s supposed to be an ending. An elbow jigged, a drink spilled, a stain slapped across a sleeve. “Oh, I’m-“ “It’s nobody’s fault.” Still. Feet pounding, running, running, the joys of running. A rough little shape, hard and difficult, lodged, impossible to get to go anywhere.