Keep on running? KEEP ON BLOODY RUNNING? The way I’m feeling today I’m gonna leg it and never come back.
Now, I’m not sure whether I’ve made this clear enough yet, but, I do not enjoy being a grown up. I like none of the fundamental elements that come with being an adult.
Work for example. Today I hate work. I hate afternoons, I hate the fact I have to get a train, I hate the idiots in work (staff not service users) but most of all I hate having to attend when I’m in such a pissed off mood.
So, I woke, a little later than planned, grabbed the dog and made my way to town to weigh my fat arse. Both myself and Fizz were pretty stiff this morning. Me cause of my knee, Fizzabeth because she’s actually eighty four. Nevertheless we both wobbled respectively to Boots where I was even more pissed off that I only lost a measly pound. Yes, it was utter bullshit yesterday when I was banging on about not being bothered about loosing weight. I was gutted.
Anyway, we dragged our paws; feet, back up the hill and contemplated today’s three miles. By the time we got home we were saturated. Light drizzle my arse. I was not looking forward to the run. Rain, a stiff knee and a bad, bad attitude made for not the most appealing of ventures. And I still hadn’t cleaned the bollocking kitchen. Scotty boy would not be pleased.
I chucked my kit on and after comprehensive Googling decided the best plan of action would be to head to the football pitch situated ideally behind my back garden and lap it twelve times. The grass would provide a softer landing for my poor right knee and plus there’s something quite liberating about your ninety pound trainers landing in the little swamps that have proceeded to gather during the so called summer season.
It was a nice change to run on grass, even if it was a bit squidgy. By my second lap it was literally pouring down but I wasn’t too bothered because I was so close to home.
When I’d completed the three miles, I was feeling fine. My knee was niggling but I wasn’t in pain with it. My trainers on the other hand did not look healthy at all. So, I left them, strategically placed, on the washing machine for Scotty Boy’s delight, complete with what-used-to-be-white-but-are-now-muddy-brown running socks.
Lucky boy.
Then before I knew it I had to get ready for work.
But I hadn’t cleaned the kitchen?
He couldn’t get too mad, surely?
For the train trip to work I purchased two magazines and felt quite sick at the fact I was left with very little change from a ten pound note. Today was not a good day.
The magazines, one for women runners and one on women’s health in general, provided light reading for my half hour commute and because I had my nose so deep in articles concentrating on sports bras and other girly running tips, I was not approached by one serial killer! This never happens! On a usual day I get at least one nutter approaching me; true story.
Maybe my day was about to turn round?
Then I got to work.
If I had a wider vocabulary of explicates; this is where I would demonstrate my ability to converse with a foul mouth. But, instead I’m going to keep it light and airy and slightly well mannered.
What a fucking shit hole I work in!
Seriously.
Anyway, as I try to keep my head down and get what work I have to do, out of the way, obviously it was the most appropriate moment to feel the wrath of Scotty Boy.
‘Why hadn’t I cleaned the kitchen?’
Bollocks!
Bollocks to Tuesdays I say!
Bollocks to work and bollocks to clean kitchens.
Tomorrow is Wednesday.
Tomorrow is four miles.
Tomorrow had better be better!
I’m going now to consume my body weight in rubbish calories and listen to bad music.
Happy Fucking Tuesday!
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