I’ve entered the Ben Nevis race. That doesn’t mean I’ll get a place. That wasn’t meant to rhyme. I’ve just put an application in the post. Hopefully, the local yobs don’t torch the pillar box containing my neatly folded entry form and cheque tonight, which, in the part of Inverness I live in, is a possibility.

So if that doesn’t happen and the letter gets to Fort William safely, and I get a place in this oversubscribed, first-come first-served race, then I’ll start to panic about throwing myself down Britain’s highest mountain (after running to the top of it).

I once inadvertently descended the Ben by the so-called runner’s track, the tourist track’s big, bad gun-toting brother. It was horrendous. The thought of running down this horribly steep rock slide makes me feel a little nauseous. Still, there’s more to hill running than running. As one running pal said: ‘Lots of cake at the finish.’ Ah, cake: The great motivator.