Wednesday, 3 February 2010


On Sunday, Outdoor Man and I went walking on the North Yorkshire Moors. All week I had watched the hills glistening under a cover of snow and the trip followed an idealised notion on my part that I fancied walking on it. How ridiculous; after all it is only 2 weeks since that blanket that had lain for a full 5 weeks right on my doorstep finally melted. However, clearly a fortnight is all it takes to make me forget the bitter cold, the slipping as I trod gingerly across thick ice, the wet gloves (from the snowballs) and the tingling to my nose and cheeks as they peeped out from between layers of wool and Gore-Tex. Oh it certainly looked pretty but we didn’t get far before I felt I had earned a right to complain and moan about my stupidity.

Why is it that so many people are condemned to a romantic notion of attraction, never learning from previous experiences but instead repeating them?

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