its a beautiful day...hello toilet!

The sports bra made its debut the night before last, unfortunately so did the bloody British summer.

Boiling.

Not warm, not hot but bloody boiling!

At least I resembled a classy runner. You know the type, proper kitted up, hair back, water bottle in hand. If I do say so myself; I looked the part.

Chubby but professional.

I had full intentions of doing the six miles but after getting to the second mile mark I thought I may combust. There was sweat coming from places that really shouldn’t be sweating.

I’m used to my arse sweating and the normal sweaty zones but sweaty eyelids and a sweaty…well, a sweaty Betty (Eric) is not something I’m partial to.

Yuck!

Anyway, the bra…the bra, was, not so good. I was still bouncing like a good one and still had to wear the Nike training top for extra support. I suppose I shouldn’t be so defeatist, I mean, they’re going to bounce regardless. Now, it’s about getting a hold (excuse the pun) on the amount of bounciness.

So, it was a three miler Tuesday.

Three miles in the sunshiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine!

Scotty Boy came to collect me and kindly pointed out; ‘You look warm!’ That’s why I love him…his intelligence! (By the way someone has now informed my FiFi that the flight to Mexico is in fact eleven hours not the mere five hours I had him to believe.  Bad times.)

Then I did something stupid.

There is something so very wrong about a chubby girl in a professional running kit coming out of Domino’s Pizza with two huge boxes.

And I wonder why I’m not getting slimmer, ey?

Well, I am in full holiday mode, why not?

Now, the reason I had to endure the run at peak sunshine time the day before yesterday was because the mother has finally decided to return from her adventures and I was playing taxi to Bristol International Airport.

It was touch and go whether she’d come home, mind.

But home she came.

I spent the hour and half journey across the border, to the airport with my father, who once gain talked non stop. Although we did enjoy a bit of bonding time via lager and lager shandy respectively at a quaint little beer garden on route.

It was nice.

We waited with baited breath at departures. I wasn’t entirely convinced mother dearest had actually boarded the plane in Zakinthos.

But, at the precise moment my father was asking the bloke behind the café quarter counter how much his crisps were; ‘just for research purposes, see?’ my little brown berried mother rolled up looking all professional jet setter.

I was pleased to see her.

‘Oh it was fab!’ she declared as I paid a ridiculous amount of money to park Jesus (the Ford Focus) for approximately twenty two minutes.

‘I’ve got a new best friend.’ She told us, ‘he went deaf in his one ear out there and got to have it siringed…he took a picture so he’s going to email it to me.’

‘Nice.’ I replied through gritted teeth.

‘Yes, his wife was a picker, like us, you know?’

‘I know.’ I agreed and suddenly felt very tired.

Anyway, I got back to Merthyr just after midnight, rolled into bed and before I knew it the alarm was screaming that it was time to get my fat arse up and out of bed.

I’d had about four hours sleep and was considering wearing an ‘approach with caution’ T-shirt.

My mood was not improved to see the kind man that called me a see you next Tuesday, a week or so ago, in the hostel.

Merp bloody Merp.

Then my favourite resident was moving out, into his own property, on his own two feet.

It was emotional.

It’s so nice to see them move on, letting them fly off into the horrid big wide world, but it’s daunting to. I wish him all the best.

By four o clock I thought I was going to die of tiredness.

‘I have to sleep.’ I think I told Scotty Boy, or I could have just fallen asleep, I’m not sure.

So, there was no running last night.

This plan is heading head first down the pan.

I need to get a grip.

I need to run.

Today is Thursday, which means there are three sleeps until Mexico! It’s boiling, I’m excited, I have to clean the house and I have to fit a run in!

I’m sighing as I type this.  

So, I’d better get on.

P.S; Just for medical reference, I took two constipation relief tablets last night…I’m so wise.

Wont be running until at least eight o clock tonight.

At least.

Enjoy the sunshine. 

Dolphins, lager, Shock Absorbers!

здравствуйте читатели That’s Russian for ‘hello readers’ thought I owed a shout out to my Russian followers, all nine of you!

OK, where to start. The weekend has passed and to be honest it passed with one hell of a blur.

Yes the, ‘my body is a temple’ memo did not get to my mouth on Saturday as I unashamedly consumed around about my own body weight in lager. Go me!

If I was in training to attend a drinkathon I’d have had a gold medal on Saturday.

But, I’m jumping the gun there; let me tell you about my bouncing activity on Saturday morning. (See what I did there with the jumping/bouncing lingo?)

I got up, way too early for my liking; I forgot to switch the bloody alarm off and to get out of cleaning duties, Scotty Boy actually had a list for me, I bounded out of the abode to get myself a new bra.

Yes, the boys need some god damn decent support and who the hell am I to deprive my troubled double FF’s of some decent racking.

So, Saturday morning consisted of me bouncing around the changing rooms of DW Sports, like a; bouncy idiot. Buying a sports bra is quite serious business not to mention quite risky. I mean, even though I did my best Tiger impression, you can’t be one hundred % sure that the bra you buy is the best for you? It’s not until your bounding about on the pavements do you really get the best bond with your bra.

I settled for a black number. A black SHOCK ABSORBER! Yes, I am now the owner of a shock absorber. Hannah the runner with her Shock Absorber. Cool or what?

Now, technically the Shock Absorber should have made its debut yesterday and even on my eleventh or twelfth pint I had full intentions of completing the seventh mile run on Sunday. In fact, I was definitely going to run.

Definitely.

Certainly.

And then I opened, or should I say I tried to open my eyes on Sunday.

I’m pretty sure death would be less painful than what I felt Sunday. It was that bad I actually cried. I shed tears over being hungover. What the hell has happened to me?

Now it’s Monday I have come to the conclusion that my athletic status is actually playing a massive role in my lack of recovery when it comes to alcohol. Yes, because I am fit, because I have muscles I now have a lack of tolerance when it comes to Coors Light.

Philosopher/doctor/expert, whatever you want to call me, I will answer.

So, yesterday consisted of me lying in bed, on the most glorious of days, moaning, whining and then crying and then going to the Baili again.

Punishment, glutton, rearrange into a well-known phrase along with head, dick.  

Four pints later, an immense amount of shaking and a Chinese resulted in no running.

The plans all to fuck.

I’m all to fuck.

This world is…you guessed it.

So, Monday again and technically today is a rest day but due to my busy social calendar (I am a social butterfly; this will not change) I’ve been forced to re-arrange the running so I can complete my big run on Friday morning. And a big one it is!

It’s around the thirteen mile mark. I wish to make no more comments on this.

So, three miles tonight…apparently.

Although it’s super warm out and I fancy a bit of bonding with the FiFi and Fizz and I do like cider in the sun and I…oh god I DON’T WANT TO RUN TONIGHT!

I don’t want to run I want to continue my research on dolphin rape if I’m totally honest. It was brought to my attention yesterday that there are at least fourteen cases of dolphins raping humans every year.

Fourteen!

I was hoping to swim with the buggers in seven days.

Seven days! Seven days until I’ve got run in the Mexican sunshine.

Life is tough.

Enjoy the sunshine kids.

"i was perfect for the circus. If she dared me; i'd do it!"

We’re back on track. Well, sort of back on track. Apart from the pain running through my left calf we’re doing good.

So, what’s happened since I wrote last.

Wednesday, there was another epic fail.

And I say fail but it aint over till the fat lady sings and I haven’t opened my gob yet.

I missed my run Wednesday.

Not like, oh I missed it, when did it pass?

More like, my throat seized up, my eyes got watery and in general I felt like complete shit. So shit, I had a fourteen hour sleep out.

I only intended on napping. She says with a grin. But hey, I didn’t, or tried not to; beat myself up too much about it. It just meant I couldn’t rest today.

So, after feeling super sorry for myself all day Wednesday mixed in with the fourteen hour marathon of closed eyes I was forced to lace up last night and complete the five miles.

To be truthful, it was an easy enough run, I was experiencing some pent up anger (shock/horror) and I told myself that if I didn’t complete it, I wouldn’t be allowed to go to the circus!

Yes, the circus is in town.

The CIRCUS!!!!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_B0CyOAO8y0 

I heart the circus. I’m not overly fussed on clowns but I do love a bendy person and by god can Uncle Sam’s American circus bend!

Flexible to…well, you know.

We took Scott’s nephew and after the initial five minutes where Scotty Boy continually referred to Caiden as Fizz, we, if I do say so myself, coped impeccably with the three year old.

So, the five miler in the heavy, heavy air was well worth it. I’d even say the cracked, bleeding lips

 (My mouth was that dry) was worth it too.

I repeated the word heavy there to really emphasise how shitty the Welsh weather is actually being.  The sky is black; the clouds are so threatening I’m surprised I haven’t had nightmares about them. So, running in a long sleeved black top wasn’t exactly my wisest move.

You’ll all be pleased to know I didn’t over indulge in candyfloss or popcorn at the circus either.

To be truthful I witnessed some horrific things in work yesterday and really didn’t feel like consuming anything. Not a morsel. Those of you who know me would have actually gasped there. Good God, I can’t even…NO, I won’t expose you via literature to what I had to look at yesterday.

I’ll draw a line under it.

Right now.

Errrrrrggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Today.

Today; I am afternoons so I got up just after Scotty Boy vacated the abode and had full

intentions of completing the seven mile run I’m supposed to do Saturday.

Then I thought it best I have breakfast.

Then I decided to watch Geordie Shore. (They are in Cancun so it was for research purposes.)

Then I thought I’d sort the washing out.

By the time I got my trainers on and closed the front door behind me I was feeling somewhat less optimistic.

After the first mile I was feeling somewhat pessimistic.

Going into the third mile my glass was certainly half empty and my calf was twanging like a good’un.

I ran three miles and gave up.

Just like that.

But it’s OK. Calm down, calm down.

The plan was only expecting three off me today and I imagine that was what was in the back of my mind this morning.

Seven miles tomorrow.

Seven miles on a Saturday.

Seven miles on a Saturday when I’m due in the pub at one?

I’ve just drained the half empty class and am shaking my head.

Seven miles Sunday?

Seven miles on a Sunday after I’ve been in the pub on a Saturday from one?

I’ve just smashed that empty glass.

Have a good weekend.

shit hole

I am repeatedly playing here comes the sun in dire hope that this rain will sod off! Five miles in the pissing down rain is not what I expected when I laid the law down yesterday by saying; ‘Ooh I heart running in the rain.’

Anyway, yesterday the three miler went well, really well, that was until about half a mile in my constipation decided to give in!

I need a poo.

I need a poo.

I need a bloody poo!

My insides screamed as I bounced around to Florence and the Machine.

Now, about a year ago I thought I hit an all time low when I was forced to use the toilets in Merthyr probation for a number two. I was there with work before your imagination legs it, by the way. Anyway yesterday I hit an even lower rock bottom. In fact, it was so low I was practically in hell.

Pontypridd Park is lovely. Don’t get me wrong, there’s far worse shit holes in the RCT/ South Wales area, in fact, I was brought up in one of them, but that’s neither here nor there.

Pontypridd Park toilets are another matter.

They are sticky.

They are dark.

They are, in general, disgusting.

And I had to shit in them yesterday.

I am practically hanging my head to the floor with the shame.  

And to top it all off, I had to shit, mid run, in a literal ‘shit hole’ with tight leggings and bloody piles!

Yesterdays run was an extreme amount of fun to say the least.

When I got back from the run I headed straight home to perform wifely duties such as febreezing the dog and throwing important things out. I also kept to my end of the bargain and blitzed the bathroom and bedroom, chucking a bit off hoovering on the landing for good measure.

As Lana Del Ray screamed about jeans or something I sterilised every part of my upstairs. (This is not a metaphor for those sick twisted sorts/ Eric had his haircut last week.)

I then, to really put ice on the cake, made Scotty Boy tea.

If the boy does not marry me now, surely there’s something wrong.

I went on to reward myself with a muscle soak bath, (need to get more of that grit) a flake and three glasses of wine. I am still struggling with the concept of eating like a runner but have promised to address this as soon as my Amazon order arrives.

Amazon has become my new church. If I want to know something, I have now taken to ordering a book on it. Pretty soon, I’ll be an expert in very many things, including Irish Water hounds!

Today, as I’ve mentioned it’s pissing down.

Bollocking down.

It’s raining really bad.

And to make matters far more fun my cold, my stinking, horrid cold has stepped up a gear and is now playing havoc with my right nostril and entire throat.

Boo hoo.

Good job I’ve got a wonderful Nike NON-WATERPROOF running jacket! (Both hands, two fingers on each. Fuck you Nike!)

Five miles…should be a piece of piss but that whole negative side of my brain is niggling away at my optimism. I wish it would kindly do one to be honest.

On the upside I only have four pound to loose off my fat arse to get a present of Fifi (that’s Scotty Boy) if I loose the four I get a super, duper pretty watch that I’ve had my eye and his card on for bloody ages. It seemed a good goal at the time but I know these four will be the most stubborn of shits.

I will run the five.

I will loose the four pound.

I will not shit in Ponty Park again.

I will also stop picking my nose whilst writing.

Happy Wednesday. 

three miles plus piles equals poetry

Week four!

Let’s go!

I’m quite optimistic today; whether it is because I lost two pound off my fat arse or whether it’s the fact I have reluctantly decided that this rain is brilliant. Yes, you read that right; I am now a rain worshiper! It may even have something to do with the fact that everything seems to be going OK.

When I say OK, I mean, most things. I am, as they say in Ebbw Vale, poorly bard!

I have the most disgusting cold humanly possible. My throat is dry and painful, my eyes are bulging in that ‘stinking cold’ manner and to top it all off I believe I have a bout of piles! Yes, that’s right; I have a painful hoop which has caused much discomfort over the past few days.

‘Have a little look!’ I asked Scotty Boy who refused to play GP Phillips for even a nanosecond.

I was forced to give in yesterday and leave work early to go back to bed to shiver, sweat and worry about my arse.

I also got referred to as a silly see you next Tuesday on Sunday which did not do much to improve the horrible mood I was in from the epic fail on Saturday.

Anyway, week four is certainly going to be my week. I am so ready for my three miles today I’m practically whizzing off the blocks. Well, I’m definitely sneezing off the blocks!

I’ll be lapping Ponty Park today because I am way, way behind on my household chores once again.

Why is being a bloody grown up so god damn tedious?

I’m on bathroom and bedroom duties tonight and I’d like to ram a few chapters of my bestseller into place but I do get awfully sleepy after a full day’s work. (I’m saying that in my most childlike yet sweet voice ever!)

So, a three mile trek around Ponty Park in the drizzle. Got my not so waterproof running jacket (two fingers up to Nike) and my tight arse leggings so I’ll certainly look the part.

I’m not going to bang on about much more today as I’ve had two rest days with not much to report.

So, here’s to week four!  

Keep posted.

EPIC Fail!!!

Oh deary me. Its Sunday fun day and I’m not only hungover, I’m hungover and in work. And I’m hungover, in work and completely deflated by week three of the plan. The runs in the week went well, apart from being a bit disheartened a few times, in general I felt OK. I stuck to a reasonably good diet and completed the three, five and three mile ruins in good times.

Then came Friday.

Friday the thirteenth.

Bloody Friday the thirteenth.

To be fair, the day started out reasonably well. We had a move on in work which meant I got to drive the van. I’m not sure whether I’ve told you about my obsession with vans? Well, I love a van! Any day that involves driving or even just riding in the van, is a good day in work for me.

So, I had to take a resident to her friends to pick up some items of furniture ready for her new abode. The first problem was the gigantic three piece suite and no so gigantic door frame.

‘Shall we go get the washing machine first?’ was suggested to which I agreed. After all, pondering the dilemma was bound to shrink the sofa, wasn’t it?

Getting the washing machine resulted in three soaking wet homeless people, a flood on epic proportions and a load of bubbles just to make things a bit more interesting.

Why hadn’t I booked the day off?

After a bit of mopping and further complaining we were nicely back at square one. Numero uno. The starting point.

‘The door will have to come off?’ which should have probably been mentioned before the pink monstrosity was wedged in between the kitchen and back garden.

It took five of us, some extensive pushing and wiggling and three pints of squash before the sofa was out in the wild. It was ripped, we were scuffed and the door frame was…well…fucked.  We had all heard the crunch.

We then had the same problem getting the sofa into its new home.

Before I knew it, it was two o clock and I had to attend a public meeting.

Now, a public meeting, in my opinion, should be renamed something more appropriate. Like, free for all, ‘come shout at innocent people’ or even a living hell?

Stressed.

Upset.

Angry.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. To say it was horrendous would be a massive understatement.  I’m not going to go into detail about the bloody thing because it’s probably the first ever thing I have experienced that I can’t make any light of. Oh unless you count the bit where I took myself to a quiet corner to fart and my area manager decided that, that precise moment would be the best time to come and discuss my career. If I could have died there and then, I would have liked to.  

So, I left Pontypridd at half seven and headed straight for the Baili Glas. I had two pints of Magners, for purely medicinal purposes. Scotty boy had quite a few more than two and I knew when he started discussing the merits of cleaning the kitchen that it was time to take him home.

Sharing a bed with Scotty Boy after he’s had a drink is a risky little game. There’s a strong possibility that I could wake up to his nose, balls or elbow. Friday night, I had the joys of waking up to the three at different intervals. To say it was a restless night would probably best sum my slumber up.

So, I woke Saturday in a mood. Another one! The thought of ten miles actually made me feel nauseous. But I’m no quitter. Only it turns out, I am.

I made three miles and then gave up.

Just like that.

I run three miles out of ten, gave up and then cried like a child.

I could list the justifications of my decision but I can’t be bothered. I failed. It’s as simple as that.

I failed in week three.

I read last week that if you try and smile while you’re running your face tricks your brain into thinking it’s happy. This did not work for me. In fact, it resulted in my face hurting more than my legs because I didn’t finish the bloody run.

‘You’re still healing from last week.’ Scotty soothed into the phone while I gulped and spluttered about giving up.

I went home, tail firmly between my legs and ate a pork pie.

Not happy.

So, it’s Sunday and I drowned my sorrows last night with the aid of Mr Jack Daniels and a few bottles of wine. I saw a Meatloaf tribute act in a tent, talked about my new novel, felt even shitter about the run and then threw up in someone’s hedge. And that was Saturday over with.

Monday is week four and I have to remain positive.

I WILL be positive.

I WILL Google positivity.

I WILL complete week four.

Maybe I could fit in the ten miles along the way?

Then again…

Dedication Baby

The five mile run went OK yesterday. When I finished work at three forty five I was suddenly exhausted which is a very convenient feeling when you don’t want to run five miles.

After speaking extensively to Scotty Boy in the form of grunts and shoulder shrugging I donned the old daps and pouted until he dropped me off in the garage at the bottom of town.

‘I’d leave it a minute, babe.’ He said. ‘It’s pissing down.’ A fact I was well aware of.

I found shelter under a hanging basket and waited in vain for the big plops to turn to sheer drizzle. It didn’t.

I do not want to do this.

I do not want to do this.

I have to do this.

I must do this.

After listening to John Travolta bang on about Sandy I decided there was no time like the present and I’d be getting wet regardless. And hey, I had a new jacket.

For about the first mile my boobs, knees and feet all seemed to have different ideas about what they wanted to do. So, when I say nothing was in sync, I’m being deadly serious. In fact, it was only Justin Timberlake that appeared to be adhering to the rules via my shuffle. (See what I did there?)

I can do this.

I will do this.

This is fine.

The route I had picked last night was down past Hoovers, into Troed-y-rhiw and then up the Taff trail back to the leisure centre where Scotty Boy would be waiting to take me home.

It’s a run I’ve completed a few times so passing certain landmarks kept me going.

Now, if I thought the rain was bad when I started, I really hadn’t seen anything yet.

As I got to about the half way mark and, in turn, onto the trail itself. The weather must have had a word with the forecast and decided now was the right time to work as a team.

It pissed down.

And I mean, pissed down. Lollops of water banged on my head so hard I wondered whether anyone would think I was a wimp for just giving up there and the?

‘If you give up now, you’re failing in week three. Week three!’ my damp brain shouted through he throbbing of rain drops.

‘Keep going.’ I actually said out loud. ‘Keep bloody going.’

Belinda Carlisle actually thought this was an apt time to scream; ‘drowning’ into my ears and I thought there was a possibility I might cry.

The DRI FIT, new fandangle running jacket, decided this was also a good moment to let me know it wasn’t water proof.

‘Got ‘ya stupid!’ Nike mocked.

‘You need a life.’ the blackbirds huddled cosily in the shelter of the trees sang.

‘Why the hell are you putting yourself through this?’ my subconscious (not in an Anna Steele way) tutted.

And there it was! The question; why?

Because I actually quite like running, rain or not.

Because my body is looking quite good.

Because my brain is no longer addled.

Because I’ve got loads more energy.

Because I like being outside.

‘I’m going to finish this five miles even if it kills me.

And I did.

When I came round the corner to see Scotty Boy waiting with a towel and a smile, I had another reason to keep putting my trainers on and hitting the pavement.

‘Ah girl.’ He said wrapping me in one of out beach towels. ‘You did good.’

I wasn’t so battered after the five miles. Vaseline and the proper bra has meant I am not cut or sore and I had a comfortable evening. I did have another grit based bath, (I don’t care what Radox say; its blue grit.) and a little bowl of chocolate ice cream to award myself for learning what dedication actually is.

I do have quite an impressive blister on my right foot if I do say so myself but I’ll be sure to cover it with a plaster for the ten miles on Saturday.  

So, last run tonight until Saturday. A nice little three miler which I’ll complete in Ponty Park, after work. I’m quite excited for this run. Three miles has now become my favourite distance to run. Like; something and nothing, I suppose.

For those of you interested, I spoke to my father last night too, he has located his sock drawer, hasn’t blown anything up, the animals are all fine and he had chilli for his tea.

‘If I was you Evans, I’d be careful in the rain.’ Was his words of wisdom for me, oh and, ‘your mothers hidden the scissors from me.’

Mother dearest is safe and well in Zakinthos, I received one text reading; brilliant! So, all is good on that front.

I’m off now to advice a homeless person about the importance of not touching anyone else’s laundry. One of them had my sports bra around his head this morning. Not pleasant for either of us.

Happy Running.

The parentals

It’s been a hectic few days to say the least. Monday, like I said was rest day and rest I did. I fell asleep on Scotty Boy around six and then woke after the alarm Tuesday morning. I was shattered and battered. Monday caused lots of issues. The boobs were still in complete agony, the feet were saw and blistered, the legs were stiff and the knees were sore. If I was a horse they’d have shot me Monday and of course, I felt desperately sorry for myself throughout the entire day.

‘Is it really worth it?’ I had whined to Scotty Boy before dribbling into sleepy submission. (I now know what submission means due to fifty shades of grey thank you E.L James!)

Tuesday I woke groggy and still a bit down in the dumps. When you have nasty grazes that are in that weepy stage they tend to stick to everything. Peeling my boobs off crisp sheets was not a moment I’d like to dwell on. In fact, it was so horrendous I actually shed another tear.

‘You’re going to have to get better stuff.’ Scotty Boy said with, yet again, sympathetic eyes. I wondered how I could get better things when the sports bra I have nearly cost him a mortgage, it was my fault I didn’t wear the ‘good stuff.’

Tuesday was my day off from work but was not technically day off as I had to take the mother to Bristol Airport as she’s off on her jollies again. When I say it’s not a day off, I mean, that I appear to have taken the on the role of support worker when it comes to the parentals.

I got to the nest just after eight in the morning, in my running stuff, ready to weigh my fat arse. Weighing wasn’t too bad; I stayed the same, which was slightly on the depressing side when I considered I only have three weeks until I don the old bikini.

The parentals abode was in its normal state of chaos. With two and a half spaniels, Psh Psh the cat and my father. What can I say about my father? Well he has four bikes in the garden for ‘just in case’ purposes, he cuts his sandwiches with a scissors and actually serenades the spaniels on an hourly basis.

‘What time are we leaving?’ he asked about eight fifteen.

‘Nine forty five.’ My mother replied.

‘I wish someone would tell me the plans.’

‘I just did.’ My mother quipped. He huffed.

 ‘What have you got to do?’ I asked in complete wonder. He was only coming to the airport for a ride.

‘Well, I’ve got to put my socks on.’ He said, deadly serious.

‘You’ve got an hour and half yet.’ I told him. Confused.com.

‘Yes, but I’ve got to find my sock drawer. Your mother keeps moving it.’

That was before we even left Tredegar.

The journey wasn’t too bad; I’ve had worse with them, the MacDonald’s trip in Hawaii, being one of the worst. Or, the crossing the Canadian border, or…god, I’m digressing.

‘Jillian, the word ambulance, is it of Greek or Latin origin?’ My mother, not the most patient of travellers answered from the back in a simple tone;

‘Robert I don’t know and I don’t fucking care.’ My father feigned a hurt expression but giggled for about ten minutes flat before deciding he’d have to Google the question after.

Before we had got to the Bridge, he had given me about five million facts on everything, told us he’d caught Ben reading War and Peace, Ben is the spaniel by the way, and he had disclosed that he once paid a whole seventy five pence for a packet of crisps and he’d be checking in Bristol International Airport how much they’re crisps were retailing at.

It is of no wonder I have issues.

When we got to the drop off zone, he needed a wee. ‘I’ll go on.’ He told us before proceeding to cause more mayhem in the drop off zone, than there normally is. (He actually walked into a minibus.) Myself and mother dearest overtook him about twenty feet into his pilgrimage.

We said our goodbyes. My father couldn’t find how much crisps were but he was pacified by finding a penny on the floor. Anyone would swear he’d really had one over on Bristol Airport.

‘Ha!’ he had claimed.

‘Good luck.’ My mother shouted after legging it as fast as she could away from her nearest and dearest.

I said about two words on the return journey, if that. Dad talked his head off for the entire hour and a half journey and I can’t tell you what he went on about because I shut right off. I had three miles to think about.

Three miles.

My poor boobs.

My poor feet.

‘Bye then.’ He said getting out of Jesus. ‘Thanks for that.’ You’d swear I was his taxi driver not his only daughter.

‘Phone if you need anything.’ Beep, beep.

Three miles.

I decided on lapping Cyfartha. Thought it was the safest bet. I had my new kit on, I was Vaseline’d right up; I was ready, defiantly ready.

It was a hard three miles. Nothing hurt surprisingly, but my ankles were stiff and ridged and any other word that means they wouldn’t move!

I concluded the run deciding driving to Bristol and back and then running only after a mere stretch was not my wisest move. But I did it, completed it in just after half hour and felt good in my brand spanking new NIKE DRI FIT trousers.

Ticked the three miles off the plan with a smile.

Last night I treated myself to a Radox Muscle soak bath which was…well, it was hot and blue but I woke this mourning with no aches whatsoever, which can only mean a good day?

Five miles tonight.

Think I’m going to runt he Dowlais route this evening. Ooh need to charge my Ipod, need to charge my muscles too I suppose.

Five miles.

Should be fun.

Off to ring the father now to make sure he can find his socks.

week three; here we bloody go

So, its day one of week three and I’m gliding through my rest day like an overweight hippo on skates!

I’m slightly stiff in the old leg department but what’s really breaking my back (not literally) is the damn cuts on both my boobs. Why I thought it would be a good idea to wear two bras is completely beyond me! Every rational bone in my body must have gone on holidays Saturday.

Now, like I’ve mentioned before, I have a substantially high pain threshold which has been fully tested to the limit this week. Showering with cuts on your boobs is possibly one of the most painful activities I’ve ever participated in. I wasn’t even aware I knew that many swear words until our state of the art bollocking power shower gave my poor boys a complete hammering.

Even Scotty Boy was concerned which is a complete wonder. He lives by the motto; go hard or go home. My screams that were worthy of an Oscar seemed to really portray some of the pain I was experiencing and he bit his lip and gave me sympathetic eyes.

Yesterday was the Wimbledon final and I managed to be reasonably well behaved; only consuming five pints of Coors out of a possible ten or eleven. Plus, Scotty Boy made me walk home so I definitely covered the thirty minute walk that was rota’d on the plan.

I’ve had a full day shift today and succumbed to the fish shop and lunch so I’m back to dreading weigh day tomorrow! Three weeks today until Mexico and I’m still chubby. Still chubby yet still consuming crap food.

TUT TUT!

I wore my brand spanking new running jacket to work today, which I know is against the rules, but I wanted to get a feel for it, after all, we’ll be on a few journeys together in the foreseeable future.

It’s not raining today by the way. Typical.

Tonight me and Scotty Boy have said we’ll go for a nice walk, a nice gentle walk, I hope because I’m pretty rigid. I’ve also got a chapter to write for le’novel, which is going reasonably well if I do say so myself. Will tiredness overtake, that is the question.

This week I have a three mile, five mile and then back to three miles before embarking on a ten miler Saturday! The thought of ten miles is making me quite queasy and I’m trying to work out where the hell I can go.

I could do the nine mile I did this Saturday, going a little further down the valley or I could run from Pontypridd back to Merthyr which is around the thirteen mark. I’m not sure what to do yet.

Scotty Boy bought himself a new pair of cycling shorts over the weekend so he’ll be stepping up a gear on the biking front. Maybe he can find me a suitable ten miles? Watch this space.

Short and sweet once again today as there’s been no running and not a lot to document.

Apart from the pain and the chips that is!

possibly still drunk, very possibly sore

Well to say I’m sore would be an understatement! But not sore, as in; I ran nine miles yesterday sore, no I’m absolutely fine on that front! It’s my boobs and my head I have problems with. Boobs from wearing two bras yesterday (the loyal sports bra as in the wash so I decided it would be a wise move to wear an olds sports bra and a Nike training top! I’d like to add at this point that I did gain a degree some time ago! So, on paper I’m not stupid!) For the nine miles, head; because to celebrate the nine miles I drank copious amounts of wine!

When will I learn?

That is the million dollar question?

My poor boys look like they’ve been in a round with Tyson. They are blistered, cut and bruised, which is not a good bikini look, I can tell you. (Mexico in 17 days!)

Anyway, the nine miles…it was…bloody great! It pissed down for the majority but I really did enjoy myself.

I started out on the wrong foot mind you, (no pun intended) pressing snooze on the alarm once too often! In fact, my nine o clock start turned into a half past eleven

It took me one hour and thirty five minutes to get to the Abercynon roundabout which is a very respectable time if I do say so myself.

Nine miles has been my longest run to date and I’d like to take this moment to thank the plan whole heartedly for gearing my body up for such purposes.

I limbered up in my living room giving Scotty Boy strict instructions to be at the roundabout (driving the other way to the route to the run or I’d stop him as he passed for a lift!) one hour and a half after I’d set out. He obliged and then sang, ‘We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when! I felt sick.

When I started the weather wasn’t too bad, I’ve run in worse, I’ve run in better. By the time I was half way it poured and my poor eyes took a hammering with the amount of blinking I had to participate in!

I had a little niggle in my left knee around about the eight mile mark but realized I was dragging my left foot a bit; as soon as I got my technique going again the niggle disappeared! There’s a lot to be said about that!

Scotty Boy was waiting at then end, with fizzabeth, who loved me coated in sweat and rain, and

it was a most welcome sight.

A proud fiancée!

I celebrated my run with taking my top off, right on Abercynon round about.

An even prouder fiancée!

So, that’s week two completed today, after a thirty minute walk which I’ve nearly completed. (I walked to work this morning, I’m working in Merthyr today, and I’ll be walking to the Baili after work to watch the Wimbledon final. NO WINE THOUGH!)

Week two of the twenty one week plan. Thirty four miles in and I’m feeling pretty good.

I bought new Nike trousers and a jacket yesterday so I’m quite looking forward to Tuesdays run!

I hope I we have the weather for a jacket.

clouds, milk and bloody ducks

Firstly, I would like to apologise to my avid readers (sorry Mam!) about not blogging yesterday. In my defence, I honestly believe that if I’d documented how I was feeling yesterday the likely hood of me being sacked, arrested or dumped, or even, all three, were incredibly high.

I did run yesterday. Fifteen laps of the football field behind my house. It was nice too! Wet but nice.

My mood, however, was far from nice. In fact, I think if I could have throttled someone or something yesterday I would have.

I did however, have extra support in the form of my loyal dog, who perched herself in the patio windows to watch me run round and round and round x fifteen. Big shout out to Fizzabeth!

Now, if I’m going down the honesty route; my mood hasn’t improved at all, technically it appears to be looming longer than the bloody black clouds, but I am quickly learning to kerb my tongue and get on with it. That’s all you can do, right?

I’m not sure whether its afternoons or the weather or whether I’m, just having a bad few days but I cant wait for today to be over with.

It was a rest day today and I spent it wisely cleaning the house. I need to earn a few brownie points with Scotty Boy because the poor sod has taken the brunt of my bad ass attitude all week. Yesterday I received a text off the poor bugger saying;

I HOPE YOU DON’T FEEL THE NEED TO SHOUT AT ME TODAY XXXX

I felt bloody awful.

I laughed but I felt bad.

Anyway, last afternoon shift until I come back from sunny Mexico. Things are on the up. Fingers

crossed.

My knee has also got a lot better and i'd like to thank my butty Kyle for suggesting i drink milk after running. i'm not sure what the science is behind it but it appears to be working. And everyone could do with a bit more calcium in thier lives!

Calcium, Sunshine and happiness, i say!

I’ve got a nine miler tomorrow and I’m both excited and apprehensive. Technically it will have been the furthest I’ve run. I’m quietly confident though and I’m aiming to complete it within the two hour mark but I’m not putting any pressure on myself, not with the mood I’ve been in, I’ll end up having a breakdown of some sorts! (I’m actually imagining myself in lycra having a turn! Its not pretty imagery and I feel slightly sick.)

I’ve planned to run from the house, down the valley, all the way to Abercynon. So, if anyone’s passing that way tomorrow and see a chubby kid in shorts with a face like a slapped arse; give us a toot! But, for Christ sake don’t stop, for your own safety, don’t stop!

The weathers looking appropriately terrible for tomorrow, which is brilliant news! I’m predicting about seven miles in that I will get overtaken by another cocky beaked duck. I’m only hoping it doesn’t get too close or my freshly washed trainers will be booting the damn thing.

Well, it was short and sweet today because I’m knee deep in part two of my novel.

I’m a woman of substance, ai!  

National Andrea Day

Free Falling

Well, today is the 4^th of July! Happy Independence Day USA. In Pontypridd its national Andrea day so if any of you have your very own butty called Andrea, make today her day.

If it hadn’t been for my butty Andrea today, I wouldn’t have even put my trainers on let alone finish a four miler. Way to go Davies!

Andrea sent a text this morning, which I received after my mammoth twelve hour sleep shift, enquiring about my mood.

It hadn’t gone unnoticed that I was in the filthiest of foul moods yesterday.

I confirmed that I seemed to be in a better frame of mind after my sleep out but wasn’t looking forward to braving the bog that Merthyr had become, overnight, to do the four miles the now aptly named ‘bastard plan’ had in store for me.

I received this text;

YOU CAN DO IT…I KNOW YOU CAN…J

I suppose I could give it a go. My phone beeped again;

PUT YOU’RE EARPHONES IN AND THE WORLD IS YOURS…WELL IT SOUNDS GOOD J 

It was all the motivation I needed. Well that and a bit of a telling off directed towards my lazy ass brain. (I use the word ‘ass’ purposely as a tribute to my American friends.)

As I’ve said, I had an epic sleep last night; it was a half hearted attempt to shift the mood that had festered and made me not a very nice person let alone fiancée. Obviously being the closest human being to me on this planet he had the brunt end of the mood yesterday and for that I apologise to him whole heartedly. (Not that he’ll read this!)

Back to the running. Four little old miles with a black cloud above my head and a million black clouds above Merthyr. Marvellous. The Great British summer my arse.

I set out to the football field, this time, to the side of my house. Yes, Merthyr Tydfil is not short of a football field or two, you can’t say that Gods Country is not sport conscientious.

The Oval, as its formally known is a new field thing that plays host to two football pitches and a dog walking route. It’s lush in the summer, or in the snow for that matter. Not so nice on a soaking wet Wednesday in July but hey I’m a martyr to the cause and plugging my headphones into my lugs, stretching, not unlike a chubby kid limbering up, I started the run.

And boy was I in pain!

So much pain I actually shed a tear. And, me with a higher pain threshold than my Gurnos boyfriend. (We proved this one night when Scotty Boy bent my pinky so far back he actually frightened himself; I didn’t flinch!)

Now, I read a little article in one of my overpriced running magazines yesterday about mind of matter stuff when it comes to injury so I tried my dammed hardest to concentrate on anything other than my knee. My pending holiday, work…no not work, that hurt more, Scotty Boy, D-

ream and things only getting better and then…it was useless my knee still hurt.

I continued despite the screaming in my brain and the equally as loud screaming in my knee and slowly but surely I found a rhythm and the pain disappeared! Yes, just went. The worrying stopped and suddenly I was back to enjoying running despite being reasonably sticky from only wearing my sports bra and North Face jacket.

I ran ten times round the perimeter of entire field area so I definitely covered the four miles. I couldn’t stick to the pitch lines because, quite frankly, there were none. There was however sporadically placed marsh’s which were shit loads of fun to bound through, especially, when on about my fifth lap, my right lace came undone. I was too frightened to stop and tie it in case I wouldn’t get my fat arse going again!

I finished my run to Gina G’s, Ooh ah Just A Little Bit, and I swear to god, as I made my way to the finishing/starting point (depends on whether your glass is half full or not) the sun poked his little head round one of the black beasts that were decorating the sky.

I’d done it.

And it wasn’t that bad.

In fact, I enjoyed the mud.

My trainers on the other hand took a very soggy battering and I’ve been forced to bring them to work to wash them in our supersonic, super wonderful, state of the art super washing machine.

I think I would have really been pushing my luck if I’d left them for Scotty Boy again who asked me last night; ‘Why was there mud all over the washing machine?’ in not a pleased tone.

It’s also been the first time in around twenty years that I’ve had to scrub my legs because of mud! There was something quite satisfying about seeing mud at my feet in the shower. I felt naughty, child like, pleased.

Back to three miles tomorrow.

Back to a better mood.

‘Happy Andrea Day’ By the way.