I’m a Welshman who lives in France.

I’m a sort of a farmer sort of thing. Ish.

I’ve lived here for three years and have just about reached the point where I can hold a stumbling single syllable conversation with a drunken Frenchman. This year I aim to hit two syllables, and perhaps find some people who aren’t drunk to talk to.

I love to run, I’ve been doing it for a couple of years, and last year did my first marathon. I run quite a lot and find it peaceful and strangely restful, at least up to about 25km, then after that it gets hurty and annoying.

I have quite gammy knees, so I do get the odd injury. This coupled with my crisp addiction means my weight and health depend 100% on me being fit and able to run.

“Run Thomas! Run!” was what my sadistic bastard of a PE teacher used to yell at me all the time, normally after sticking me out on the wing in a game of rugby on a cold wet Tuesday afternoon. I was always terrible at running, but I’ve shown him now, oh yes. I’m still terrible at running, but he’s dead, so I won eventually.

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