When next shall I find myself lying in a ditch beneath a sheet of camouflage nylon inside a sleeping bag strewn at the most obscure of angles to find comfort whilst tending a pot of luke warm cous cous as it heats slowly above the purr of a stove?
How long until I once more find myself staggering into a noisy pub on a Friday night, clip-clopping my way to the bar in cycling shoes, head-to-toe in shiny, sweaty, grubby lycra, my face red from exertion, my mind vacant from exhaustion, asking could I please get my water bottle filled up?
In what time and place will the success of my day be measured upon so simple a scale as hours and miles, and my performance be reviewed so instantly, explicitly and without compromise by an LCD display just inches from my face?
When again will I eat houmous at midnight, with fists full of bread and watery plum tomatoes, and wash it all down with block after block of dark chocolate, milk chocolate, cheap chocolate, any chocolate, not because I want to but because I know I should if I want to get up tomorrow and do it all again.
What else could make me eat 6,000 calories, drink 2 gallons and sleep 10 hours in a day only to wake up tired, hungry and thirsty the next?
Wherever should it be that the end of my day be dictated so harshly by the lowering of the sun and weakening of muscles, the pre-requisite for doing so be simply whether or not I am carrying enough water and the location of my bed be controlled only by the lay of the land in my immediate vicinity?
What set of circumstances will cause my brain to dwell at such length on the consistency of food stuffs unattainable at present, of a bed, a sofa, of anything on which to lay my aching body, a shower in which to cleanse it and the shelter in which it will be protected from the elements and kept in happy stasis?
How, I don’t know.
And where, I don’t care.
But when, I hope, soon