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.