I experienced a moment of great contentment this morning. at 7.30 I deposited my son at the Eastbourne centre for his driving theory test and went down to a café on the front for an espresso, armed with the Racing Post, the Financial Times, announcing on their front page a series next week on capitalism in crisis, and a notebook. I sat there watching the sun rise over the sea and runners of every size, from the lithe to the lardy, run up and down in front of me. I shall be on that same front in eight weeks time for the Eastbourne half marathon. It was pleasant, and neither the surly waitress nor the abysmal coffee could spoil the moment.

I ran later in the day, just before lunch. The sky was clear and bright; for a second or two I thought I could smell spring somewhere. A small narcissus is flowering in the front garden. The run itself was unremarkable: much weaving through Seafordians and their dogs walking along the front, an English version of the Italian passeggiata, but with sweary threats at misbehaving children and bellowed mobile phone conversations that would never be heard in Amalfi.

Then home for a lunch of left-over curry, the best sort.