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…