My limbs still ache when I stand from my chair. There’s a satisfying sharpness to the
twinge running down the front of my thighs. I’ve been out in the hills.
Rewind to Friday night, sitting in the terrace of he Castle
Tavern in Inverness. Under the
covered part of the terrace a screen broadcasts a green and white image. Eyes all round are fixed on the screen
as the sound of a rhythmic dry thock repeats. It’s Andy Murray’s semi final at
Wimbeldon. Next to me friends
chatter. As...
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