An Odd Weekend

Rufus Wainwright's voice is haunting. I found that out after receiving a text message on Thursday saying:

"We've got an Xtra ticket for Rufus Wainwright on Saturday. Want 2 come?"

to which I willfully replied

"F*** yes!"

and off to the gig I went. The venue was Kenwood House, up the back end of Hampstead Heath off towards Highgate. You either take a bus all the way round the park (if you're clever), or you walk all the way through the Heath and get hopelessly lost about forty times, along with countless other wayfarers with their picnic hampers.

Yes, how Hampstead. It was an outdoor 'picnic' concert in a heritage site, and the Pimms flowed aplenty. The sun, however, didn't. A layer of threatening dark cloud sat over the whole of London as Rufus mocked himself between songs, and prayed that his audience didn't vanish off home with the first signs of downpour (I don't know that many fans who are that fanatic as to sit in a muddy park for the evening when they could be at home. It's not Woodstock after all!). But the rain held off long enough for me to be blown away.

He was interesting, funny and poignant at intervals. He stopped songs halfway through if he didn't like them, and had the confidence to deliver the standards with real gusto rather than warmed-up hackery. I was left in that reverent that the really good concerts give.

So Saturday night edged to a close as we all left the park and tried to cram onto buses to get home. Sparing you the account of the journey, I was back in Twickenham by about midnight, preparing for the race I was meant to run the next day.

I had signed up for a 15 mile race out in Kent, in a really pretty area called Bewl. The idea was to break myself into longer distance running by trying out a half marathon, and I had to get out there on a train. Now luckily on Saturday night, despite getting home a lot later than planned, I checked the trains only to find there was no way from my place into London to get the train I wanted. So I set the alarm for 6.00am to be ready to get the Tube into London.

Everyone in this city is completely used to the idea that transport just doesn't work. It's the norm. Nobody complains that the bus is 20 minutes late; they just look at you blankly when you comment on it, as if to say "Well yes. What else did you expect?" So by 7.45 I was still sitting on my rear, under the rain, with all my running gear on, cursing my stars that the transport was bust.

I decided to go into town anyway to see if I could at least get the next train in, and run the distance even though the race was over. But then as I approached Picadilly Circus, the Tube packed up completely with runners. It turned out the London 10km run was on that very same morning, and was about to start at 9.30. I took my chances and went to see if I could enter. And I did.

It was a gruelling race, trying to keep up with the front row of runners I ended up with. These are people who don't go to bed at night without running at least 10km or the equivalent on a rowing machine. They look like they're made of sheer sinew. Hardly any bone, not even to mention fat. Just bark-like sinew.

I completed the run in 41 minutes, which is a competitive enough time for a beginner, and to my glee, gave chase to a Ugandan who looked like he was born running. It rained, the sun shone, the cloud came, and it rained again, and still the crowd of charity runners cheered us on. It was a real privilege.

Where else but London could you wake up after a Rufus Wainwright concert in a park, only to stumble into a 25,000 person race the next morning...?