For reasons still beyond comprehension, I have run the Bristol Half Marathon, and am still alive. In the old days, before running myself, I would join Ben after he’d finished for a burger at Three Brothers, as I then did last year with Frankie after the 10k. We aim for it this year with Talia, also running with us, and Sam and Jaz, mere congregation; unfortunately (or fortunately, they’re not that great, it’s just tradition that drives me now) they’re rammed, so someone suggests Totos’ across the river. Off we amble sorely. We sit outside, because it’s actually quite nice out despite initial forecasts. The burger I have instead is fine but broadly uninspiring, and I am given distressingly little mayo given that I literally went to the bar to ask for some. I also order a side of garlic fries because excuse me, I’ve just run a half marathon, cut me some slack. Also fine. The conversation is always stimulating when Sam is around, and whilst enjoyable in short bursts, I am relieved to be tired enough to just decide to go home and sleep on the sofa for what just doesn’t feel like quite enough. I am glad for the sheer sustenance of the burger, if nothing else.