Where did you wish you were at lunchtime today?

I've just about recovered from the run, but still have a bit of a clicky shoulder from the swim. There is a rather down at heel herbalist/therapy type place near where I work, advertising shoulder massages for £5. When I walked past the make-shift board they had placed outside, I was somewhat put off by the unusual offer of 'Back Pain Gift Tokens'. I spent an interesting few moments wondering whether I would like to give anyone back pain for their next birthday.

It was pouring with rain, that lovely, seriously wet rain, with hefty mean-what-they-say clouds doing their stuff. It smelt nice. I wished I was in Scotland, with sodden earth beneath my feet instead of cracked concrete paving stones and tarmac. I wanted to hold my umbrella to one side and turn my face to the sky and let the water splash on my face and drench me. Sadly, this wouldn't be a good look in the office, so I kept my umbrella in the sensible place and felt dismal and boring. I'd have to make do with the poster of a castle on Mull and my little calendar of Iona opposite my desk. April has a nice sunset.

Minimum Bounce Marathon

Flushed with my recent success in the swimming pool, I decided to branch out into running. I have always harboured an urge to do a triathlon, being fine with the cycling and fine with the swimming, but always struggling with the running. I'm not built for speed.

Enthused by the marathon taking place this very morning, I dug around in my wardrobe and found my jogging bottoms, retrieved my mangled trainers from behind a shoe box and, very relieved, found my M&S 'athletic minimum bounce' bra at the back of a drawer.

I took off into the park at a steady (and exceptionally slow) rate. It went OK at first, but then I started to pant heavily. I was very pleased to see other runners with headphones on, so a) I didn't have to waste precious breath with a greeting and b) they couldn't hear my cheyne stoking. A bit further on and I was starting to struggle, and tried to distract myself by wondering who was sitting in the low flying aeroplane overhead. Disappointingly quickly, I was fighting the voice in my head saying, 'give up now, why don't you just walk, walking is nice, walking is gooood, just give up'. I decided to just keep my eyes on the next tree, then the next tree, and so on. There are a lot of trees in the park. After ten minutes I was pleased to remember that I had been listening to my favourite 'angelic' music with younger son, and had explained that this was what was to be played at my funeral. With my heart thumping away in my chest, I inwardly applauded my forethought and began to plan other aspects of my funeral. There wouldn't be a dry eye in the house as the letter I had written for the occasion was read out (note to self to write this, although when do you find the right moment to pen your own funeral address - when drunk? When happy? When depressed?). Luckily, this line of thought had taken me quite a few trees further on. My left knee was complaining a bit, and I was getting fed up with my chest shaking up and down in spite of the promises made by the foundation garment packaging. It was quite disconcerting that my stomach was also shaking quite a lot too - that never used to happen. Another mental note to self to get the ab roller going again.

I eventually made it to the wrought iron fence with important looking newell post that I have to tap with my hand before I can stop. I felt quite smug as I went through my stretches like a proper runner. I hoped I had created the impression that instead of having just jogged a mile, I had circumnavigated the park at impressive speed. I'm not sure anyone was fooled.

St George at the Traffic Lights

The three lane gyratory system round my office briefly became a place of laughter and joviality this morning as two flat bed trucks rumbled past with a load of jolly red and white clad people jiggling around in the back. There was a lot of hooting and waving and something of a carnival atmosphere for about 2 minutes while they waited for the traffic lights to change (slow phasing). Someone was wearing what looked like woolly chain mail and there was a lot of flag waving going on. I think woolly chain mail is only ever going to work with those wobbly arrows with suckers on the end (I mean rubber suckers, not oblivious victims being perforated).

Talking of perforation, I was in sore need of my two minutes of jolliness as I had had the long awaited rabies injection this morning. The leaflet cheerfully mentioned the possibility of anaphylactic shock, but what it didn’t mention was that this could happen in the pharmacy when you saw the bill - £100! I suppose it’s worth it not to turn into a foaming, mad woman.

(I know what some of you thought then and IT’S NOT FUNNY).

Oh, and the swim

I did my 5K (200 lengths - yes, that's 200 lengths) in two hours and fifteen minutes. The bottom of the pool gets extremely dull after the first two lengths. The 'fun' sculptures in the children's area take on a menacing look after twenty. The man in front's feet start to irritate after about sixty. The clock apparently refusing to move its hands becomes frustrating at about ninety. Everything starts to ache after about one hundred and ten. And so on, and so on, and so on and so on............

Today though, I'm feeling smug. When things got a bit stressful at work, I sat back and thought about how totally fabulous I am at swimming and what an amazing success I am. It won't last long. Probably just as well as they would have to rebuild the doorframes to make room for my head.

I suspect my fabulousness feelings will peter out somewhere between the hepatitis B and rabies injections on Wednesday morning. Oh well, I'll enjoy it until then. By the way, if you see me foaming at the mouth at the end of the week, give me a wide berth.

Requiem for a Snail

There's something about the tiles on my front doorstep that become totally irresistable to snails when it's been raining. They come from all directions and try to get in the front door. Usually I'm careful to remember this, and move them out of the way. Sadly, the other evening, coming back late from a very cheery evening out with friends, I tripped up the steps, doorkey in hand, to hear an ominous crunch, and a gluey feeling on the sole of my shoe. I didn't dare look down to inspect the carnage, and surreptitiously scraped my shoe before I went into the hall. The next morning, there it was, evidence of the snail massacre the night before. There seemed to be little substance left, so I think a bird might have enjoyed a late night snack.

Poor snail, I hope he/she was happy while alive. Come to think of it, life is probably quite interesting with that he/she thing snails have going on.

Sport for the Sluggish

I've been feeling a bit dopey all week, so things aren't looking too good for the three mile swim tomorrow. I reckon that if I can do at least two miles, the rest I can do by lying on my back and just swirling my arms gently back and forth like jellyfish tentacles. I think my silicone hat and goggles will complete the Cnidaria look too (sorry, little showy off moment there - look it up). The swim starts at 1pm, I might just be back at home in time for dinner if I'm lucky!

After this, I'll need to take up another sport that doesn't turn my hair to straw and strip my body of its epidermal layer. Badminton has always seemed like gentle fun (as long as you stay at the lower echelons of the game). The big benefit of a shuttlecock is that it doesn't roll away like those annoying tennis balls, so you expend less energy around the court. You don't tend to get a bruise where it hits you either. It isn't really very difficult to swing those nice, light racquets around, you don't get wet, you don't get cold, and chances are, there will be a bar somewhere nearby to recover in when the first bead of sweat appears on the brow.

Oh yes, the sporting life for me.

Sartorial Swimming

I finally managed to get to the outdoor pool again yesterday. Taking the advice of my hairdresser I bought a silicone swimming hat, and decided to splash out (pardon the pun) on the £15 goggles to make sure I could read the Sunday papers when I got home again. My head is quite large (no jokes please), and the silicone 'sheath' didn't want to go on. It had to be wedged firmly into place, giving me a permanent frown. I topped this with the gorgeous goggles, which after a few minutes suck your eyes out to fill the vacuum, so I ended up looking like a bad-tempered lizard. I don't think Claudia Schieffer has anything to worry about yet. Every couple of lengths the hat started to slide upwards and filled with air, so I looked like a surprised lizard with a balloon on my head. The only consolation in all this is that no-one would recognise me. I think I'll avoid the nose clips, there are limits.

I did manage to do the mile in about 48 minutes, so I should be able to do three miles next weekend within the session time of 3 hours. Watch this space!

Swimming down the Road

I'm swimming three miles in about 8 days time, and I haven't been swimming for about two weeks. Should I be worried? Hmmmm. Some helpful advice I've had in order to avoid the tedium of the lengths is to imagine I'm swimming somewhere three miles away. So, I'm going to pretend I'm swimming to Twickenham. It will feel a bit odd swimming down the main road with the buses, but I'm willing to give it a go. I'm not entirely sure Twickenham is actually the full three miles, so might do a detour en route. I could swim past Tesco's in Teddington and wave at all the shoppers. It will be an interesting extension of my dance technique, which usually involves a lot of swimming movements.

I know, I know, 'It was only funny for the first twenty years!' I hear you shout, I do need to learn to throw some new shapes now.

My other news is that the Skip has been a) serviced and goes very nicely again and b) has had some Mr Sheen squirted around inside to celebrate. I even found some loose change lying on the floor as my reward. I'll spend it in the pub tonight.


'Anyone know where the deep end is?'

Blue Stripe Paint

I am fed up with my bathroom. Since I decorated it, and put the new floor down, we need to have a bucket in the sitting room when someone has a shower. I can't say this is much of an improvement on the undecorated bathroom, where the old bit of cheap carpet was obviously holding all the water back. Because the ceiling has been leaking it is now sporting a series of irritating brown stains. I had another bad decorating experience a year or so ago when I tried to paint out some brown stains on the ceiling from another leak. I foolishly bought blue stripe white paint (blue stripe denoting the brand rather than the pattern of the paint - although stripey paint would be very jolly). After about six coats I decided that blue stripe paint was actually invisible paint as the brown stain was still showing through just as clearly. I think I need to invent a new fashion in decorating where brown stains are seen as a decorative asset. Talking of which, the pub across the road spent a lot of money redecorating a few years back, but strangely chose nicotine coloured paint for the ceiling. It didn't look any different by the time they finished. I've since seen quite a few pubs with nicotine coloured paintwork.

It must be time for a new range of colours from Dulux. Out with 'warm neutrals' or 'rich reds' and in with 'nearly nicotine', and 'isn't it time we got the plumber in brown'.

Anarchy and Marks and Spencer

I've just bought a pair of very bright, patchwork hippy style trousers they are so bright I think I might embarrass my children if I wear them while in their company. Maybe, after years of loyalty, I'm breaking out of the Marks and Spencers mode at last. Does this mark a new beginning in anarchic wear? Do I need to get a black balaclava to go with my new outfit? Will I start waving placards with words that rhyme with 'banker' on them? Will I experience being coralled like a bucking broncho while quietly walking around Trafalgar Square, purely based on my outfit? Will Marks and Spencers start a new line of clothes (bovver boots and black hoodies) to keep up with anti-establishment trends? They would have to think of something other than 'St Michael' as a brand name. You can't go throwing computers through bank windows wearing saintly attire.

I quite like the idea of the balaclava - you could throw away the sun cream and stop worrying about the crows feet around the eyes. You could even couple it with sunglasses for the complete incognito effect - although this would reduce the power of the 'Paddington Hard Stare' when confronting the police. Yes, I think all non-violent protest should be based on the 'Paddington Hard Stare'. Nothing would get broken and no-one would be arrested and the police would be reduced to going for elevenses, whatever time it was.

Double Doh

I've just got my car back from a service, and how wonderful it is not to have to get on buses for a while. The few days I was without the car I seemed to live on public transport. Some of this was my fault as one morning I did manage to get on the wrong bus and ended up having a very convoluted journey to work. I had rushed out of the station, seen my bus was 'due' and hopped on the first one to come along. Doh! I thought when I realised. 'Double Doh' I thought when I also noticed I had left my card key and office key at home (the last time that happened I spent quite a lot of the day waiting in corridors to be let through doors by anyone that took pity on me). Some days should just be spent lying in bed with the duvet pulled over your eyes waiting for the day to pass uneventfully.

Things perked up when I went to London for a very nice lunch in a very smart place, and then visited a Van Dyke exhibition on the way back.


'Anyone got a penny or two for one of me loverly oil paintings?'