Left my glasses in the dark on the big steps at the north of Chelsea Square. Damn. All John Adams' fault, rambling on a podcast about the Hendrix and the Rolling Stones at Harvard in the early '70s. Then Suzanne Vega was eulogising the Fab Four. It would distract a sniper, let alone a jogger. Got to Albert Bridge before I remembered the spex, went back, there they still were, regrouped. I was doing a 'private marathon' on a Sunday night, kind of thing runners get up to in London, and I'd stopped for a banana and a drink from Tesco's South Ken. Went out today with no phone, just the iPod nano. It's better with no phone, sad that it feels almost rebellious. Chelsea's a fantasy world at night, genuinely beautiful, but Albert Bridge is more than that - as magical in its way as Neuschwanstein castle in Bavaria, floating in the mist, impossible not to smile. It's easy (and boring for others) to play "I used to go there, and there, and there" in London, as though the place were a big board game, that you play through your life. But I did used to live the other side of that bridge, and must run back next Sunday and take a look. It was a very happy time. This Sunday run started in NW4 after 5pm, with 5k walking to see if the crippling left ankle pain would fade, steadily running on it from Edgware road, east to Hampstead Heath for a full circuit on softer ground. Back west to Rosslyn Hill (listening to Janet Baker talk about Yorkshire grit), across and over Primrose Hill, packed. Through Regents Park, and across Marylebone to Edgware Road again, before heading into Hyde Park, and Ken Gardens. After the Chelsea débacle, the back streets took me to Belgravia, and to Buck House. Years since I ran the Mall, but my brief foray into the ICA only terrified the staff, and I ran on and over Hungerford, to the Royal Festival Hall. Last night, we were honoured guests at a National Youth Orchestra reception and concert there. Heard an interview today with Simone Young, the excellent conductor. Tonight, I was using RFH simply as a public loo. In said loo, a sound installation features a chap whistling all of Stravinsky's Rite of Spring. Blasted home with jazz, Mingus and Miles. Pain all over (including ribs, annoyingly), but also feeling much stronger the last few k, which was a surprise. All good, don't want to make this too easy - as the old North Korean proverb says, Race to the Stones, but run from the Beatles. Home, stretching, the news tells me Colin Davis has just died, and my whole life runs past me, very quickly. Thoughts for another day of reading his manuscript letters in the BL Tippett archives, and bumping into him just the once, in Highbury. Failed to interview him. Another reason to keep running this year.