Sheffield is built on seven hills, just like Rome.  I learned this wonderful fact by overhearing a conversation on the train as I trundled through West Yorkshire yesterday morning.  If overheard suggests that I was eavesdropping, let me assure you that this was not the case.  The elderly gentleman in question spent the journey from Derby shouting a conversation at his (presumably all but deaf) wife - a mixture of trivia and moans interspersed with her name (Ena) every third word.

"Ena, points, Ena, we're passing through points Ena, that's why the train has slowed"

From his comprehensive knowledge of points it seemed clear that he had work on the railways - a theory supported by the officiously deferential way he treated the ticket inspector ("there you go Sir") which put me in mind of a Corporal in the presence of a senior officer.

Ena for her part, either through lack of teeth or 80 years developing a thick Yorkshire accent, was unintelligible to me, though she did respond to his comments with vim, and on occasion I suspect, venom.

The last comment I heard before detraining was "Ena, don't go loaning any money out this week Ena" which left me wondering all day.

I spent the day in the top floor of the tallest building in Sheffield, for the most part in an airless, windowless room, however I was on occasion able to nip out and see fine views of the aforementioned hills.  Alas my meeting ran late, I missed my 'target' train and left my colleagues at just after 7 - enough time to get my 'back up' train at a brisk walk with little margin for error.  I was therefore distressed to find that the security desk had closed and the doors had been locked, trapping me in.  I was able to get someone to release me, but this left me with 6 mins to cover three quarters of a mile.

My take on running is, I suspect similar, to the one Epicurus would have about Alcoholics Anonymous - I can understand why people occupy their time with it and can see the obvious health benefits, but it just isn't for me.  If you have seen John Cleese run you can perhaps visualise the sweating figure weighed down by laptop bag that flailed into Sheffield station to miss his train by 45 seconds.   I was peeved - it was going take five hours to get home.  Then fate intervened - a lightning strike had delayed the previous train by an hour and I was able to rumble back into Oxford by half past ten to beer and House on tape.