Hey,

I remember, in my distant past a time when I would never stop doing sport. I would think nothing of swimming after school, and then going to play rugby or badminton or spend an hour on the athletics track. They were simpler times, when a man was judged by the firmness of his stomach rather than the quality of his person. What a sight young Holmes was, his strong and athletic frame turning heads as he walked the streets, his dazzling smile distracting attention from the fluffy moustache of adolensence. And the women, oh the women.

Yesterday I played frisbee, and was panting harder than a Doberman in the back of a Volvo on a sunny day with the windows wound up. After about three minutes. That is an almost staggering lack of fitness, mainly attributed to the fact I still think I'm that guy, so I don't pace myself until its too late. So I've done some research, and I think with a carefully regimented training routine, I can change. I'll run under the cover of darkness, around the park, except for days when its too hot to cover myself entirely with a duvet cover, and then I'll run at night. I'll do reps in the gym with weights: one up, one down, one brief yell for someone who knows what a hernia actually looks like. I'll be more careful with what I eat. For instance, I used to eat soup very quickly, and it left me with no skin on my tongue. And with all this effort, I'll become a fit, fast, running machine, very much like this.

Because remember: we can all fly as high as our dreams allow, unless we are an ostrich.

Speak soon,

Craig