Luck Spreading

Darbster ran the Flora London Marathon again yesterday. He'd have done much better had he tried it today. The course wouldn't have been so crowded with other runners for a start. Or at the start. He might then not have tripped over someone else's ankle, just 2 miles into the race, causing him to fall and get trampled on.

He bravely picked himself up and continued on his way, slightly dazed, bleeding profusely from wounds on his leg, sporting a number of bold trainer footprints on the back of his tee-shirt. He got to 19 miles before a combination of the heat and blood loss caused him to collapse. He was swiftly picked up by St. John's Ambulance who stretchered him, back 500 yards, wiped him down, patched him up, and sent him on his way.

He reached the finish line, having completed 26 miles 885 yards in 5hrs 3mins, about an hour overdue. His previous time might have been significantly quicker but his achievement this year was greater given the circumstances.

Later last night, as he strolled around Trafalgar Square arm in arm with Tracy, it seemed the perfect time to ask her that question he'd been planning for some time. He fumbled in his pocket. He drew out his hand, nervously. He dropped the exquisite ring he'd carefully secreted all the way down in the train. He bent to pick it up, relieved it had not fallen in the fountain or down a drain. He banged his head on the stone rim as he straightened up. It seemed everything was conspiring against him.

Except where it mattered.

She said 'Yes'.