I went out running the other night. I'd left it too late and it was dark already. Not just darkish, but freezing cold, icy black dark, with tiny stars peeping through the wispy fog hovering above the trees. I wished I'd worn a hat.
I started running up the hill and did a bit of a skid on a patch of ice. Shit, I thought. Turning round and going home was not an option, I'd been waiting all day for this run. So I jogged on slowly instead - taking small, careful granny steps - treading on piles of old crunchy leaves whenever I could, to reduce the chances of slipping.
I love running in the dark. Gardens are spooky and all is quiet. People sit in their brightly-lit lounges with the curtains wide open, scratching themselves and feeding their faces, watching TV and not caring that I can look in and see them as clearly as if they were on TV themselves.
I run slowly past, invisible, breathing in icy gulps of air, glad that I'm outside and they're not.