They fly at me, a spread of green birds with long tails trailing behind, squawking, screaming, laughing. I keep running. I wonder if they will turn around and attack, but they disappear over the tops of the new line of stables and a large navy horsebox. I overtake a walker with a wet lurcher trotting slightly ahead. I turn right, into the field that was dug up for the Olympics and became home to protesters who were homeless and decided to protest to earn a place on the camp. I run around the edge, heavy legs stamping on short cut grass. It’s not raining, but the air is wet, like cold steam, and as I turn the corner towards the Lea, another much bigger flock of birds appears in the air, flying straight at me, swooping towards me, at least 20 of them, squawking, cackling, squabbling.