Monthly Musings: September!

Do you ever have one of those months that just feels like a brick in the face? That was how September was for me. Don't get me wrong, it was a great month. My birthday is in September and I got a new job, I finally managed to catch up on Game of Thrones (although I have no idea what I'm meant to do with my life until the next season comes out!) and the weather was uncharacteristically pleasant.   

But boy was it intense! One minute it was the first week of the month and I was happily knocking back Jack Daniels and blowing out birthday candles and now all of a sudden it's October and I've somehow become a sleep-deprived business woman who can barely account for the last three weeks of her life. 

But, whether I can make sense of it or not, September is over and it's time for some monthly musings!

Obsession of the month...

This month I have been obsessively listening to Charlie Puth and Meghan Trainor's new song, 'Marvin Gaye'. On repeat. Sometimes for hours on end. Of the 73 million views the video has had on Youtube, 10,000 or so of them are probably mine. Yes I'm aware that I could just download the song on Itunes, but that would be far too logical. That's simply not how I roll.

Accomplishment of the month...

This month my greatest accomplishment was getting myself a fancy new grown up job, which involves wearing blouses, pretending I know how to use an Ipad, and occasionally popping into London and getting utterly lost on the Tube. I never thought I'd end up in the corporate world (being more into rainbows and smiles than pie charts and firm handshakes) but I guess that's the beauty of my bizarre little life. There is absolutely no knowing where I'll end up next.

Thing I am most ashamed of this month...

As part of my fancy new job I got a fancy new company car. The low point of the month was definitely getting stuck outside Dominos Pizza for 15 minutes because I couldn't work out how to put the car into reverse. #epicfail

Book of the month...

The book I've been slowly but surely working my way through this month (and will no doubt be working my way through for a good few months to come) is Middlemarch by George Eliot. Now don't get me wrong, I love Victorian novels. I don't mind getting entangled in the enormous descriptive passages or trying to keep tabs on the seemingly never-ending cast of characters (yes, Dickens, that one was aimed at you). But so far Middelmarch hasn't really grabbed my attention and the next 636 are looking pretty daunting right now. Wish me luck.

Youtuber of the month...

I've been subscribed to Stepanka for a long time now, but for the last few weeks I've been binge-watching her videos like some kind of weird stalker. Maybe I find comfort in knowing there's someone out there who seems to end up in as many random and bizarre circumstances as I do. But if you enjoy my weird and wonderful annecdotes then you'll probably love her channel.

Things ticked off The 2015 List...

An accurate depiction of how I currently look/feel

This month I continued the theme of accomplishing absolutely nothing on The 2015 List. I'm nothing if not consistent after all.

Next month I will aim to...

Fit in some time to sleep! This month has been so hectic that the bags under my eyes have become a permanent feature, so deeply engrained that there's not enough concealer in the world to help me. Trust me, I've already gone through a whole bottle!

Bethan's Birthday Bowling Bonanza (and other B words)

This week my friend, Bethan, turned 23. The same Bethan I travelled Europe with. The Bethan who got head-butted by a horse in Berlin, forced a drunken Irish man to take off his top and bench-press a keg in a nightclub in Prague, and is always my first choice for karaoke partner. Yes, that's the one.

To celebrate we went bowling. It's difficult to say which of us is the worst at bowling. Bushell seems to score quite highly. but that's only because we keep the rails up and he ricochets the balls off them. Hayleigh is particularly good at aiming her ball at small spaces where there are no pins to knock down. For my part, I repeatedly start off well, all strikes and spares, only to totally lose all control of my arms during the second half of the game, sending the bowling balls off in weird directions and eventually coming last out of everyone.

Actually, as far as the first game goes, I blame my failure purely on the garlic bread I was eating. I was too afraid to set it down when my turn came around in case one of my friends ate it or hid it somewhere weird so I took it along with me.  Unfortunately my brain couldn't grasp the idea that my right hand needed to release what it was holding (the bowling ball) whilst my left hand needed to keep a firm grip on what it was holding (the garlic bread) so I ended up throwing them both.

Naturally, as it was a celebratory occasion, we had some drinks. We each had one free drink as part of our package (along with chicken nuggets, burgers, fries, and all kind of glorious junk food) and, when I went to the bar to get my second I asked the barman, "What would be the difference between a Bells and a Jack Daniels?" (Look at me, being all frugal!)
The barman misunderstood, thinking I meant, what's the difference between these two different kinds of whiskeys. Really? I was wearing a Jack Daniels t-shirt and cowboy boots. This girl knows her whisky!
"No," I said. "I mean, the difference in price."

I did not add, "Anyone with taste-buds would know Bells is a scotch, while Jack Daniels is a Tennessee sour mash, most comparable to a bourbon."
As it turns out they were the same price (when does that ever happen?) so no prizes for guessing which I opted for.

When bowling was over (needless to say I lost both games) we went on an adventure. Or rather, we almost went on an adventure. We drove out to an old abandoned police station, sat in the cars discussing whether or not to go in, and eventually decided it was way too scary and drove away again.

But, creepy-horror-movie-type moment aside, it was a really fun evening. The only thing that could have possibly made it better is karaoke (although I don't know many places that combine bowling and karaoke). So happy birthday Bethan! Here's hoping you don't get too drunk this weekend.

Car-tastrophe! Hot Doctors, Whiplash and Plenty of Stress.

I know I've been Missing in Action for a while and I apologise. I've been stretched to my limits over the past few weeks trying to organise the new business. Who would have thought being a full-time princess would take up so much time and energy? And, to make matters even more stressful, I've been sharing my car with my parents for almost two weeks now. Few things are less comfortable than being forced to sit in the back seat of your own car. Except, of course, if you have a Peugeot 206 cc. That's even less comfortable due to the fact that the back seat is only really big enough for a very small child. Or a chihuahua.

But, unfortunately, my parents' car got towed away in a very sad state after a car crash, which mangled the entire back end of the car, potentially traumatised Lauren for life and, above all, ruined my plans for the evening.

It was a Thursday afternoon and, by some cruel twist of fate, I had been forced to go to the Harvester with my mother and the children after school. I loathe the Harvester. Even if we put aside the fact that every time I've been there my food has been tasteless and disturbingly soggy, there's something about an all you can eat salad bar that does not sit well with me. Perhaps it's the thought of refrigerated beetroot or perhaps it's because, having been there with Lauren, I've witnessed how easy it is for a small child to lick the giant spoon used to serve the blue cheese dip without anyone noticing. Whatever the reason, I was looking forward to putting thoughts of questionable coleslaw behind me and heading off to my yoga class that evening.

Unfortunately, I never made it to yoga.

On the way home Ellis sat in the passenger seat and I sat in the back with Lauren. They were arguing about who could think of the most words beginning with the letter F. Ellis was coming out with 'frustration', 'fusion', 'fraction'. Lauren, on the other hand, was listing things along the lines of "Frozen castle", "Frozen Elsa", "Frozen Arendelle".

It was rainy and dark and it was rush hour. The motorway was packed. For some reason the driver in front slammed on her breaks and my mother couldn't slow down in time. We all screamed (admittedly I screamed the loudest and for longest) as we bumped into the back of the car in front. I had time to think, "Oh wow, we hit it" before the car behind went into the back of us with full force. Apparently she hadn't seen us so she hadn't even put on her breaks.

There were a few moments of stunned silence (and total agony through my entire back) before the scene erupted into chaos. And then there I was, standing on the side of the motorway in the rain, looking at what was left of the boot of my parents' car with a screaming child in my arms. Lauren was hysterical.

"Where are the police?" She screamed, sobbing into my neck.
"Don't worry about it darling. We're all alright."
"No, I want to talk to the police! I want to talk to them right now!"
Goodness knows what she intended to say to them.

Ellis, on the other hand, stayed put in the front of the car, listening to the radio and happily surveying the scene. He was the calmest one of us all!

Then, as if things weren't dramatic enough, another group of cars crashed just a little way up the motorway from us. Before long the hard-shoulder was packed with half a dozen cars, all looking rather worse for wear, two ambulances, a police car and a screaming five year old, still demanding to speak to the police.

And so, at just about the time when I should have been working on my downward-facing dog, I found myself in the back of an ambulance on the way to the hospital. Lauren had cheered up considerably by this time and was asking the paramedic a thousand and one questions.
"What does that button do?"
"Why is that tissue blue?"
"Why is Ellis sitting on a bigger chair than me?"
"Why are you sitting like that?"
"Are you going to put one of those tubes in my arm?"
And, as if I hadn't been through enough already that evening, my phone died in the middle of a Snapchat conversation. That was worse than the back pain!

When we got to the hospital, Ellis had to be put onto a stretcher because his wheelchair was crushed inside the boot of the car back on the side of the motorway. Naturally Lauren insisted on wheeling him through the hospital, happy to mow down anyone who got in her way. She steered him into the wall a few times, but eventually we made it into the paediatrics unit with no further injuries.

When the doctor finally arrived to check the children over (Ellis had hurt his back and Lauren was insisting that absolutely everything was hurting, despite the fact that was alternatively crawling around on the floor and climbing up onto Ellis' hospital bed) I couldn't believe my eyes. He was gorgeous! I couldn't help wishing I'd taken a few moments during the ambulance ride to reapply my lipstick!

So Dr Gorgeous examined the children and did his best to fend off Lauren as she tried to climb up his legs (she is just as partial to a handsome man as I am. Thankfully I have slightly more self-control) and I was inwardly cursing the harsh hospital lighting, which was doing nothing for my already drained and pale complexion.

That's when the handsome doctor referred to me as Ellis and Lauren's mother. Really?! Either I look so young that I have to produce my driving licence to buy a scratch card or I look old enough to be a mother of two children. It can't be both! I mean, I know the lighting was anything but flattering, but come on!

The children were given the all clear, despite Lauren's best attempts to convince the doctor that she was in agony, whilst simultaneously trying to swat him with a book. Then he asked if my mother and I were injured at all, which triggered a great deal of inner conflict. My back and neck were still hurting, but I had foolishly ignored my grandmother's wise advice of always wearing matching underwear in case you're ever hit by a bus. True I'd only been hit by a three door car, but there was still a chance I'd be forced to expose the fact that I was wearing mismatched lingerie. Of all the days to opt for comfort!

Luckily, after a few quick questions, I was able to bypass an x-ray and keep my pink pants hidden. If only Dr Gorgeous could have done me the favour of not mentioning 'possible incontinence' I would have escaped the hospital without any further mortification. I guess you can't win them all.

Despite the total destruction of my parents' car, an evening spent flitting between horror and humiliation, and a missed yoga class, things really weren't as bad as they could have been. My back is still very painful (and my neck makes a disturbing clicking sound when I look to the right), but no one was badly hurt. The woman in the car in front had barely any damage to her vehicle and was able to drive away from the accident with no problems. The woman behind had obviously squashed the front of her car by going into us with such force, but neither of them were hurt and that's the main thing. Yes, my favourite lipstick was in the car when the garage came to tow it away, but, that great loss aside, we were all very lucky. 

From Public Pools to the Royal Treatment

Everything suddenly came to a screeching halt. No new blog posts, no new Youtube videos, my nails are a disaster and I can barely remember what my friends look like. Over the past month all of my time has been sucked into some kind of vortex and I'm not entirely sure what I've even been doing other than looking for jobs and mourning the loss of my footless and fancy free student days.

Maybe I haven't adjusted to living with my parents again yet. I'm used to waking up to a plan I made the night before or a totally blank canvas ("What's the plan for the day? Four hours of Netflix followed by cocktails and the Sex and the City drinking game with my housemates? Why not?") Last week I woke up to the sound of Lauren scampering into my room.
"We're going swimming!"
I broached the subject with my mother. Admittedly, rather tactlessly.
"Swimming? Nobody consulted me. I could have had plans for all you knew."
"You don't though, do you?" She said, knowingly.

She was right. It was meant to be one of those blank canvas days. Maybe I'd have gone to pilates. Maybe I'd have gone to the pub. Maybe I'd even have finally gotten around to writing my new blog post. But my blank canvas day was snatched away and instead I was heading to the swimming pool with two small children. Still, my soul was, as of yet, uncrushed.

That quickly changed.

We drove all the way over the Swansea, only to find out the gym we're a member of wasn't open to children for another hour. Try explaining that to a four year old diva. So we ended up on the road again, heading towards the public pool in Neath, which, as it turns out (the lady on the phone failed to mention this little gem) is free for all school children after 2pm. Wonderful if you're a ten year old, but not so great if you arrive at quarter to 2 with a small child in a wheelchair and a tiny loon with no patience and find yourself in a queue that winds itself around the building. Especially as my mother had phoned ahead to make sure we could go straight over with the wheelchair with no problems.

Lost adrift in a turbulent sea of scores of screeching children with a worrying lack of manners, I started to lose it. To cut a long story short, the staff at reception made me despair at the state of humanity (and the education system) and I ended up wandering around in a towel looking for change for the locker. This is why I pay a monthly membership for the Village. That and the Village has ample room to do hair and make up when you're done working out.

Anyway, that's the kind of thing I have to put up with now that I'm no longer living the glorified student life. One small mercy is that I had to come back to Exeter for today's exam and I stayed overnight on campus. It was like being a fresher again, brushing my teeth in my little en-suit, collapsing into bed safe in the knowledge that there was nothing to wake me except an alarm I personally controlled. No one tried to make morning conversation. No one asked me to do the dishes. It was bliss.

The red line is the ridiculous route I took

What made it even better was that I was staying in Holland Hall, which will mean nothing to you if you didn't go to the University of Exeter and will mean everything to you if you did. Back when we lived on campus, hearing someone say, "I live in Holland Hall" was like hearing someone say, "My father wears tweed and shoots pheasant...which the servants then cook." At £6988.80 for a 32 week contract, it's officially like the Mecca of Exeter rah culture. Oh the rumours I've heard about that place...

After searching for it for 20 minutes and seeing no sign of it, I was concerned. I'd lived down that end of the campus two years ago. It isn't a big place. I took the most obscure route possible, finding myself lost more than once. ("Wait...why is there a children's park here? Where am I?" And so forth.) I started to worry there was some kind of Hogwarts-style enchantment over the place so that peasants couldn't see it.

And then I found it. Perched on the perfect spot for stunning panoramic views, close enough to campus to crawl there in the mornings with the least amount of uphill walking (a big problem in Exeter), courtyards, an outdoor dining area, a bar, full English breakfast with a selection of cereals and juices on the side...it lived up to all my expectations. Still, a girl like me with a valleys accent and an aversion to gilets would have burned upon crossing the threshold if it hadn't been during the summer vacation.

So call me a loser, but my trip to Exeter to sit my exam has been like a mini holiday. I got to have fried bread with breakfast, didn't have to share my bathroom, and no one ordered me to go swimming. In reality, I'm not really all that hard to please...

My Life as a Grown Up gets Boring...and Sticky

I know things have been quiet on the blog-front recently. That's an understatement. I'm actually surprised virtual tumble-weeds haven't started rolling across the page. But that's just a reflection on my life right now. No job = no money = no fun = nothing to ramble about. I haven't even graduated yet and I'm already fed up with life as a full-time grown up.

I had every intention of sharing the highs, lows and inevitable humiliations of my night out in Swansea this past Wednesday. Unfortunately I woke up on Thursday morning with nothing more than a vague recollection of a McChicken sandwich and the stench of shisha clinging to my hair (I dread to think how much that cost me) and that hardly makes for a gripping blog post. Seriously though, that was the first and last time I will drink Bacardi. 

Hayfever destroys my face 

I'm meant to be on an exciting adventure today, but I managed to make a pig's ear out of it. Tonight is the Cosmopolitan Super Bloggers Masterclass (or some kind of similar awesome name to the same effect) and I've had my ticket for months. I was counting down the days until I could go up to London, make new friends, learn lots of great tips, and, perhaps most exciting of all, take home an epic goodie bag. Unfortunately, while I was counting down to the 23rd July, the event was in fact on the 23rd June and, while planning a trip to London was never going to be easy, planning one in two days with no money was impossible. Especially when certain friends who live in London refuse to return your frantic messages, begging them to let you sleep on their sofa. I will name no names. Cough cough Tim! I'm so disappointed I can't go!

To make things even more boring (and miserable) my hayfever has forced me to barricade myself in my bedroom. I genuinely thought there could be nothing worse than sitting in my little room with a flannel over my face, wheezing like Joseph Merrick and listening to the rest of the world enjoying the first glorious summer Wales has seen since the Dark Ages. But then I went downstairs and realised all the Jaffa Cakes were gone and I hit a whole new low.

In other news, the fire alarm the firemen installed a few months back started screeching incessantly in the early hours of the morning because the battery was starting to wear out. It wouldn't shut up until someone hit it with the feather duster. This ridiculous ritual would start again every fifteen minutes until I lost my patience and ripped it apart with my bare hands. Now it's just making a feeble, but continuous ticking noise and there are bits of plastic scattered all over the landing.       

So, the past few weeks have been fairly uneventful. But, regardless of how high the pollen count gets and how swollen and sticky my eyes become and, in spite of my ever-dwindling lack of funds, I simply must get out and have some crazy new adventures. Even if it's only because the bloody ticking of that fire alarm is going to drive my crazy otherwise.

Life After the Dissertation

I've been back in Exeter for an entire week now and I have the dwindling bank balance and bags under my eyes to prove it. There has been an abundance of cocktails, many bad life choices (I have no idea why I insist on taking advice from strangers I meet in the girls' toilets) and many days like today, curled up in my bed of shame, watching 'Barbie: Life in the Dreamhouse' on my brother's Netflix account.

But, while many of my post-dissertation celebrations have involved tacky, overpriced Exeter night clubs and hidden hip-flasks, my housemates and I have found other forms of entertainment over the last few days. Of course, when you live in Devon it's sometimes necessary to think outside the box. The most exciting thing we could find within an hour's drive was a hedgehog hospital, which, if anything, would surely make for a very depressing day out. So, when we decided to seek out fun on Tuesday it was...varied.

"...our cultural adventure..."

I was forced out of my bed of pain at an unearthly hour to go to Brody's all you can eat breakfast buffet. Usually I'm not a big fan of buffets (or salad bars for that matter), but I loved it! Up until the point where I'd eaten so much that it hurt to breathe. It wasn't quite on par with the breakfast buffet I had in Florida (then again, does anyone really need ice-cream for breakfast?), but it was delicious. There is no such thing as too many pancakes.

After a brief time of resting my head on the table with a glazed stare, too full to move or communicate in any way, we headed across the road to the Royal Albert Memorial Museum. I can't say I learned a great deal, but they had costumes to try on and mosaics to play with so it was a big hit with everyone. I particularly enjoyed the World Cultures exhibition, which was a bit like being on the It's a Small World ride in Disneyland. But without the boat. Or the cool music.

When our cultural adventure was over we decided the logical thing to do next was to splurge on white clothing to take home and tie-dye! Let me just say, I had no idea Primark pants was so large. I now have four pairs of enormous tie-dyed knickers, which really aren't in any way as cool as I'd envisioned.

What a great way to pass an afternoon though! Yes, Jess may have dipped her hand into the bucket of purple dye without her glove on and stained her fingers. Yes, we may have forgotten to take the clothes off the washing line before the rain started and made all the dye run. And yes, to anyone walking past our conversations on why whites are easier to work with than blacks may have sounded like the ravings of a group of racists rather than the innocent discussions of a merry band of crafters with fabric dye. But now I have a new skill, some unique t-shirts and some hideous giant pants. Overall I'd call that a success.

I'm glad I have housemates who enjoy a day of trying on ridiculous hats and flicking dye onto pillowcases. How boring it must be to be normal! 

Rumour has it next week we're going to paint mugs!

Nil Pois and an Excessive Amount of Wandering

My favourite way to spend Eurovision night is sat in front of the tv with my dad, arguing over whether or not half the countries even exist and resorting to pulling out the atlas, which never settles anything because it's so old it still has the USSR in it. I will expose my worrying lack of geographical awareness ("Wait, I thought Belgium was the capital of Holland...") and we will give a running commentary on everything...including the running commentary.

This year was different. My friend, Shaun, was hosting a fundraiser so I spent this Eurovision night in the local golf club, taking part in a drinking game that rendered me useless before half the performances had happened. Drink every time someone winks at the camera, there's someone on stage doing something pointless in the background, Russia gives points to the Ukraine...it was intense.

So I wasn't surprised when I ended up in a taxi on the way to Swansea at half past midnight. I was in no way shocked when I found myself having an in-depth and weirdly emotional conversation in the women's toilets about a girl's choice of lipstick colour. I wasn't even flummoxed when I looked up from my Jack Daniel's to find all my friends had been kicked out of Bambu. But I still can't grasp how I came to end up in the smoking area of Monkey, consoling a random man about his recent breakup. But here are the facts as I know them.

I had, in front of me, a free drink. (Note to my mother, yes I watched the bar tender pour it and no I did not take my eyes off it for a second.) To my left was a good-looking man who, from the outset, appeared to be somewhat of a compulsive liar.
"I work here." He said. It was entirely plausible.
"Oh, at the bar?"
"No, I'm a bouncer."
I tried to remember which shoes I was wearing so I could do a quick calculation of how tall he was. Not very.
"Oh, you don't look big and bald and scary enough to be a bouncer."
He laughed it off. Later I found out he was a promotions worker.

Nonetheless, we had a good time. Then I realised that the club was closing and everyone else was missing. There was, at the back of my mind, a vague memory of a search party going after Jonny and Hayleigh walking past me, telling me they'd been told to leave. Even now, I have no idea what any of that meant, but I knew then that they'd gone to Monkey. Whatever that was.

"You have to take me to Monkey." I told Mr Bouncer.
His friends did not look impressed. One of them had just broken up with his girlfriend and looked like he'd rather chew his own arm off than go to another club. 
"I have no idea where it is and I can't go wandering around Swansea on my own."

So we headed off. Me, Mr Bouncer, Mr Heartbroken and...some other guy. It wasn't until we got to Monkey that he earned himself the nickname Mr Forgot-my-ID. And so, following a barrage of complex conversations and assurances, I ended up in the smoking area with Mr Heartbroken, leaving angry and probably very confusing messages on each of my friends' answering machines. From here things went from unusual to plain weird.

There I was, giving my best drunk love advice to a stranger who clearly wanted to be anywhere else, waiting for some sign of any of my friends or even Mr Bouncer, when a random man sat down on the other side of me. He explained, in great detail, that it was his birthday and he was all alone and in need of a friend. As much as my sensitive heart felt sorry for him, he gave off a bit of a crazy vibe. I looked to Mr Heartbroken to do something, but he seemed too relieved by the fact that I was no longer lecturing him on the downfall of chivalry to shoo away this new guy.

Luckily, all at once, a very odd phone call from Hayleigh confirmed they had somehow made their way down to a gay club I'd never heard of, and Mr Bouncer arrived.
"You have to take me to the gay club." I told him.
"What?"
"My friends are there and I have no idea where it is."
Suddenly the birthday boy piped up and offered to take me.
"No offence," Said Mr Bouncer. "But I don't know who you are and I don't feel comfortable sending her off alone with you." I didn't point out the fact that I'd only met him two hours before.

I very rarely get hit on and, when I do, it throws me a little bit. So try to imagine how awkward it was, heading off to a gay club with a man on either side of me, vying for my attention.
"I just bought a new car."
"I have a convertible."
"I take three holidays a year."
"I'm going to China this summer."
Oh goodness, I just want Hayleigh!

Right in the midst of what was becoming an intense struggle for alpha male status, I spotted my friends on the other side of the street. I'm not entirely sure they'd even noticed I'd been missing for the past few hours. They all seemed very merry.

So I thanked my escorts, who were still quibbling about who could out-do the other, apologised for the drama I'd caused and jumped in a taxi with Hayleigh. The moral of this story is...don't get lost. And if you do, don't try to give love advice to strangers. Always carry a rape alarm. And don't believe a man when he tells you he's a bouncer. If your friends go missing, check the gay bar first and always, always wear a good shade of lipstick.

I guess next year I'll just stay at home with my dad and the old atlas.

My Biggest Challenge: Week 1

Let's clarify something. I can't run. At all.

At this point people tend to think I'm being modest and will attempt to say comforting things like, "Everyone can run if they really try", "I'm sure you aren't that bad", or, worst of all, "Oh, me neither". I don't even want to think about the number of times someone has forced me to don a pair of trainers and head outside for a jog because 'they can't run either'. The result is always the same. They prove that, in reality, they can run, while I stagger behind, wishing I could catch up with them...so I could strangle them for making me go running.

I can't pinpoint exactly what it is that makes me entirely incapable of putting one foot in front of the other. My Dad ran marathons back in the day so a few years back I asked him to survey my technique. After a few disastrous sessions he said he'd never seen anything like it, it defied all logic, and that there was nothing he could do for me. My extreme lack of co-ordination and balance have something to do with it, I'm sure, but my failure seems to run deeper than that. Even as a small child I refused to play tag. I simply could not do it.

So, because life isn't difficult enough with my dissertation still buzzing around my head like a swarm of gnats and an essay due next week I've lost all my notes for, I've signed myself up for a sponsored run. Because apparently deep down I must be some kind of masochist. But what's the point in asking people to sponsor me for something easy or that I enjoy like fancy dress, a bake sale, or a cocktail drinking marathon (although you can add that last one to my list of things to do this summer)?

The 5k (yes, 5 whole k) is in June and I thought I'd share my progress in a weekly update of all the horrors of training. Because what's the point in inflicting misery and humiliation on myself if no one else can enjoy it?

Week 1

Day 1

I downloaded a running app to help me out. What I really need is some kind of magical genie, but this will have to do. It's called 5k Runner and it's supposed to get you 5k ready in just 8 weeks. It's a really useful app and if you're looking to take up running and have no will power or clue where to start, I highly recommend it. Even I can keep up with it, although I have to make allowances for the time I spend tripping over my own feet.

Letting go of the treadmill was my first big challenge. People really downplay how traumatising it can be to use one of those machines. My feet rarely do what they're supposed under normal circumstances so when the ground started moving I was convinced I was going to end up with an injury.

Day 3

I fell off the treadmill.

I was jogging, concentrating on the weird way my arms were moving and trying not to look down at my feet (watching the treadmill move makes me nauseous. I know, I am a model athlete) and then everything went wrong. My arm must have gotten tangled in the wire of my earphones so my phone flew across the gym. I turned around in shock, my feet forgot to move and the treadmill kept going. I ended up twisted in a weird angle, unable to understand what was happening, one foot on the treadmill, one foot off, incapable of making it stop. The guy directly behind me was totally judging me.

Day 6

I did not fall and managed to do the whole workout without stopping for fear of falling, which is a first. Hopefully no one else at the gym has picked up on the fact that my maximum running time is still only a minute (the app is building me up, run a little, walk a little), but the grey-haired lady on the treadmill next to mine almost definitely noticed that she was running significantly faster than me.


So week one is over, my legs hurt, I have some bruises and the gym instructor definitely thinks I'm weird. But I've raised £70 for a really good cause and the physical suffering of running makes a nice change from the mental suffering associated with writing my dissertation.

And now I am going to shamelessly promote my justgiving page where you can keep up to date with my fundraising...or, you know, donate to a good cause.

My Fundraising Page!!

I'm raising money for Action Duchenne, which is a very important charity to me.

Wish me luck in the upcoming week. I don't want to fall again...