Readers, be proud. I got up this morning, shook off my hangover and made it out the door. No sign of my previous apathy or injuries. It was a slow run, for sure, but it was a run nonetheless. However halfway round the course something terrible started to happen. My dinner of oatcakes, cheese and wine started threatening the world in a new and unusual way. (Yes, that was my dinner, taken at midnight. That's quite a normal meal for me in the festive season.) I was thinking of doing a "Paula Radcliffe" but the leaves have gone from the trees, the foliage has died back, and all of North Lanarkshire is now a barren winter landscape with nowhere to hide. I had the choice of an impossible five minute run home, or a long uncomfortable walk with every muscle of my lower half clenched tighter than the teeth of a school teacher. I tried running but it was agonising. I don't know how I made it back before my butt exploded but I did. I'm still traumatised... and no wiser as to why my usually capricornian stomach decided to turn inside out.
Still, 45 decent minutes done. And Tania, I'll be doing sumo squats when I can be sure I won't need a nappy for them...
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Stop in by next time that happens and I'll lend you one of Poppy's :-)
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