At 7.30 on Wednesdays, a Labrador Club meets up on the main field. If I time it right, which I usually do, on Wednesday mornings I run through a sea of labradors; fat, young, long haired, golden blonde, chocolate, black, grey around the whiskers. They sniff up at me, follow me up the hill and round the fields. Their ears flap as they gallop alongside me, bodies lurching in time with the slap of my feet hitting the tarmac.

This week’s text is a cute lil bit of writing about bodies, the park, and the weirdness that is being born n bred in London. And running too, it's also about running. Read the full text here.