The Morning Walker

Every morning this week, I have left the warmth of the midget’s bed and walked around Regent’s Park.

London at 7am is dark, the streets eerily lit in pools of yellow and buses of early commuters trundle sleepily by. This morning it was raining and despite my initial misgivings, off I went.

As I walked across Primrose Hill, it started raining heavily, pouring down my face. I laughed as there was nothing to do but keep going. I ran for a little while just to get back quicker and then the rain eased and the morning light appeared.

Joggers passed me and on I walked. Over the lake where seagulls were starting their early morning cries, through the rose garden where the last few roses signalled the change of season, through the beautiful Victorian wrought-irons gates from another era and back along the Broadwalk where conkers and horse chestnut leaves lay thick underfoot.

I was soaking wet but invigorated and so with a rather damp spring in my step, I made it home.
I think I’ll go again tomorrow…

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