Silver Lining

Bloody hell! Go me!!

4.42km, 4923 steps, 8.8km/h, 29.55 minutes.

Target, as usual, was 4km!!

Two rest days now, then another 4km day, then we move up to 4.8km (3 miles).  I'm sensing it won't be a problem.

I'm so fucking impressed with myself right now!  Bloody hell!  When I was at school (and therefore young and fit) I couldn't complete the 800m.  Well, I just ran 4420m, so blow *that* out your arse, Mrs Harman-Clarke!

Oh, and Milkshake by Kelis is currently the best possible running tune.

Candy now playing Anyone Can Play Guitar by Radiohead.

"Come and meet us at the local National Trust house" said my friend, a couple of days ago.

So off I trogged, today, the small people in tow.  A tad reluctant, truth be known, on account of not much sleep again last night.  But a picnic was in store, so the kids were up for it, so off we went.

And there were people I haven't seen in quite a long time.  In the end there were four of us - S, who arranged it all and didn't tell me, J who is a local friend who I still don't see much of, and who is about to have her 4th baby, L1 plus one of her kids, and L2 with both of hers.  We had a fantastic time!  A real giggle!  Dan and S's son managed to get wet and filthy muddy dirty in about 5 seconds flat, while L2's children remained pristine throughout - it was hard to imagine all the kids had all been doing the same things in the same place!

I had forgotten how uplifting and sustaining my friends are.  And how wonderful.

Anyway, we set the world to rights.  And our conclusions?  Well, you can keep Colin Firth and a big thumbs down to Hugh Grant.  Bill Nighy was surprisingly well received.  Jude Law was a definite possibility.  Nobody ever gets the Jeremy Paxman thing.

Of course, it wasn't all about men.  We had long discussions about baby slings.  S has made a ring sling out of some gorgeous guatamalan fabric she managed to get hold of.  I hope she co-ops it.  Although my baby sling days are long over, it looked quite promisingly hammock-like.

And L2 had brought a sample of some silk burning she'd been doing.  Very creative.  Small pieces of jewel coloured silk organza, torn and layered over a square of polyester felt.  Then designs burnt into the whole with a soldering iron. It's a beautiful effect.  I can almost feel my creative muscles stretching and crying out to be used.  There's a whole drawer of Angelina, somewhere....

And that's about it, really.  But it was more about the journey than the arrivals lounge!  And I shall run well tonight, with a sustaining grin.

In which my crystal ball is restored

So go on, then.  What was the very last thing I said before I went away on my holidays?  Hmm?  Hmmm?

Oh, ok, I'll remind you:

What would your motto be?
Where are my car keys?

Well, smart arse.  That was a fine time to prove your psychic powers, wasn't it, huh? Huh? Mmm.

So on the Monday morning, feeling brave and intrepid and not a little frayed at the edges, I loaded three children, a small (and smelly) brown dog and a truly immoderate amount of luggage into my trusty little Skoda, and set off for endless hours of entertainment on the M6, M42, M40, M25 and so on.

We have a song we sing when we're on the way to my Dad's (sung in fine operatic style to the tune of This Is The Way The Lady Rides)

We're all going to Grandpa's house,
Grandpa's house
Grandpa's house.
We're all going to Grandpa's house;
It's a bloody long way.

This is the road that takes us there
Takes us there
Takes us there
This is the road that takes us there
It'll drive you bloody mad.

Lyrics borne of bitter experience, let me tell you.  Long and bitter experience.  But I digress (as usual!)

We left home at about 9.30, and arrived in Epsom at 2.45pm.  Not too bad.  Of course nobody was in, so I had to phone the strange, nocturnal son of the next door neighbour (who won't do anything so mundane as answer the doorbell because that would be plainly foolish, oh yes), and ask him if he would be so kind as to come down his stairs, open his front door, and present my father's doorkeys to me on his doorstep.  Which went well.  I only had to ring him once.  It's a breakthrough!

So then we unloaded the car, made a picnic lunch, ran round the garden like loons 10 times, admired the baby goldfish in the pond, counted how many channels grandpa has on his cable TV, and declared ourselves bored.  Really bored.  What can we do now, Mum?

Well I needed glutamine, if you remember.  So I decided to explore the potential of the healthfood shops in Epsom.  Back into the car, twice round the ring road, a minor diversion nearly to Guildford when the wrong exit slipped itself in front of me, once more round the ring road and I successfully negotiated a parking space in The Most Inaccessible Multi-Storey in Britain.  (Fact).  And off we toddled into the quiet backstreets of the suburban hubbub that is Epsom.  Actually, the glutamine part was easy.  Finding the car park again was less so, but my Brownie's badge in map reading came into its own, and we managed.

Wiggling our woggly way out of The Most Inaccessible Multi-Storey in Britain, my phone rang.  It was Grandpa.  He was apologising for not being at home, but someone had thrown themselves off the train at Guildford and he was being re-routed via Islington, or somewhere.  Still, back at his house my stepmother had arrived home, so I unloaded the children again, did the kissy kissy did you have a good journey thing, and settled down for a cup of tea and a nice chat.

At some point, Moo wanted something urgently out of the car, and I wondered where my car keys were.  Scrabbling around in my bag drew a blank, but before I could search more extensively, Moo's urgent requirement turned up in her bedroom.

We thought we'd take the dog for a quick spin round the common, so I looked again.  They hadn't materialised in my handbag and a glance round the kitchen scored a big fat zero, too.  But then Grandpa turned up and dog and car keys were forgotten again in a fresh round of kissy kissy good journeying.

Then there was a little period of contention, if I'm honest.  After the children had gone to bed, Dad and I had an uncivilised conversation.  After which I thought (being all mature and growed up and everything) Fine.  I'll just go home in the morning, then.  So I got the car keys ready for repacking after my run.  Only I just couldn't put my hand on them.  But the bedroom (which I share with the smallest two at Grandpa's house) was dark, so I couldn't really look properly.

In the morning, I was warming up and asked stepmother if she'd seen my car keys.  She hadn't, but checked her handbag anyway (!) and thus sparked a major drama.

Now, I'm firmly of the opinion that lost stuff turns up when you don't panic over it, and in its own time.  And anyway, I'm always losing my car keys.  They're usually in the freezer or the dishwasher or somewhere else totally obvious.

So I went running, just throwing a glance at the car on the way past, to check the doors were locked.  After all, it doesn't have remote locking so if they were all locked I must have had the car keys in my hand when we got back from Epsom.  And they were.  No sweat.  Well, quite a lot of sweat, actually, but all because of the run and none for the car keys.  Capiche?

By the time I got back from my run, Grandpa and stepmother had turned the house inside out.  The cushions had been taken off the furniture.  The furniture had been pulled away from the wall.  All pockets and jackets had been turned inside out and frisked.  Dishwasher, freezer and washing machine had been emptied, stripped down and reassembled.  Grandpa, bless him, had even done a search on Google.  Oh c'mon!  It's worth a smile!

No car keys. Not anywhere there.  I went for a shower.

It'll drive you bloody mad, indeed.

By the time I got out of my shower, Dad had rung the Skoda dealership and ascertained the price of a spare car key.  Bugger that!  I'm not buying a new one.  Stepmother kept offering me Moo's house keys, but no matter how she might try they hadn't grown a car key.  I sifted through the kitchen bin.

More in despair than expectation, I went to stand against the car and softly weep.  But lo!  What light glimmers softly from behind yonder child car seat?  Oh yes, it's that nuclear reactor that Grandpa gave you to put on your keyring to make it glow in the dark!  Buggeration!  There they are!  In the car all the time!  Who'd have thought?

Only it was locked.  It really was.

God bless the AA.

He thought it wouldn't take him long.  He said it'd be a matter of minutes and we'd soon have them out.  He reminded me of the dentist on the day they took my wisdom teeth out.  He was wrong, too.

Who'd have thought that Skodas - undesirable, embarrassing, eminently unstealable little Skodas would be so bloody buggeringly difficult to break into?!

After half an hour, the AA man turned to me, a flash of inspiration lighting up his little face.

"Haven't you got a spare?" he asked
"Yes"  I said.
"Where is it?"  He panted, eagerly
"At home" I teased
he glanced, furtively, excitedly at Grandpa's house, where every window was filled with a little face suffused with awe and expectation.
"In Northern City"  I enlightened

I saw a shadow cross his soul, I swear I did.  His shoulders slumped and he returned to wiggling his wire through the inflated crack of the driver's door.

Still, it was only another 20 minutes before he teased the door open and I was reunited with my car keys.  And what's 50 minutes in the pouring rain getting piss wet through when you're Britain's 4th emergency service, eh?

Grim

is largely what today has been.  I woke up at 4.30 this morning, dripped to consciousness by the not-quite-right gutter outside my bedroom window.  And of course, as soon as I was awake, a 3 lane highway rumbled into life inside my skull.  Credit cards, house maintenance, job applications, moving far away, relationships, garden design and oh-crap-I-forgot-to-take-my-glutamine, all jostling for supremacy in an infuriating, sleep-banishing buzz. 

Well, at least I could do something about the glutamine, so I got up and took it.

And remembered that I was supposed to be taking the car for a service this morning.  At the garage which was conveniently close to my office, so I didn't bother to book a courtesy car.  Shit!  And then I had an appointment with the solicitor here in my own town, 30 odd miles away from the garage, barely an hour later.  Stuff the car, then.

So at 6.30, when my alarm went off to remind me to get out of bed and get ready to run, I was just tumbling back into a fitful doze. 

The rain put paid to my bonfire idea, much to the kids' disappointment. 

The solicitor's appointment was productive.  Hard, but productive.  I think this site has been discovered again, so that's all I'm saying!

And in other news, I've sorted out my outstanding job applications.  I've emailed two in today, I have one to deliver tomorrow, and then I can bide my time with the other four.  So far, I've applied for jobs in London, Plymouth, Warwick, Manchester, Surrey.  There's some interesting looking vacancies in Lancaster, but I don't much fancy going further north at this point.  Looks like a move might well be on the cards, then. 

Better get the house tarted up!

My distance assessment is truly shite at the moment.  The aim was 4km, and I actually ran 3.43km, 3818 steps, 8.8km/h, 23.24 minutes.

4km tomorrow.  Definitely.

I misjudged the distance for tonight, so we ran *just* short of the 3.2km target.  My bad!

3.04km, 3385 steps, 8.9km/h, 20.17 minutes - the local hills are conspiring against me.  I think I'll go and join the Roman Legion...

Anonymity, Uniforms and Growing Old.

PH has a thing about the suffocating anonymity of the British high street.  How the days have gone when all two given towns might have in common would be a Post Office and a bank, or maybe a pub.  I'm not sure it's just him actually.  And perhaps I even agree with him, on this one point.

So last week, when I suddenly needed to buy a suit at the drop of a hat, I was banking on the fact that Epsom (which I don't know well at all) would have pretty much the exact same range of shops as Wimbledon (which I know very well).  And so I wouldn't miss out by jumping on a train to Wimbledon, to sample Sissy's wardrobe, because the same selection of Next, Top Shop, H&M and M&S would await at my destination as may or may not surprise me at my starting point.

To Sissy's it was, then.  She hadn't managed to find much that would fit me, apart from a truly beautiful bias cut striped silk skirt from Laura Ashley in tones of russet and brown with yellows and greens thrown in.  It was her size, rather than mine, but being Laura Ashley the sizes were on the small side anyway.  It would have fit, apart from a rather odd bagginess around the tummy, and if I'd been able to find a top to disguise that, it would have done rather well.  Except for two things.

First, skirts at interview aren't really my thing.  If I wear a skirt, then inevitably I expose my tattooed leg.  Now, my pierced nose is on full display, and I never take the stud out for interviews.  Specially not at universities, bastions of individual and intellectual freedom that they are (!).  But I figure it's kinder to reveal the tattoos gradually.  You know, over time.  After the contract is signed and it's too damn late, basically.  Not that they're rough tattoos; au contraire, dahling, they're very classy.  But not everyone sees tattoos that way, you know?

And second thing?  Well.  Piercings, tattoos, and Laura Ashley?  I mean, I revel in contradictions.  But you can push an idea too far!

Nonetheless, I took the skirt with me, as a fallback position.  And Sissy truly came up trumps with the shoes.  Chocolate brown silk strappy mules from Carvela.  If that means anything to you.  Rather lovely.  Of course, they're safely stored somewhere out of the sunshine and the crush of my wardrobe, ready to be safely returned to her the minute she remembers I've got them in due course.

Anyway,  I wanted to tell you about the bus drivers.  Kind of.  I took Moo with me to Wimbledon.  Partly because she wanted to see her aunt, and partly cos she's at that age where shopping trips to London are exotically exciting.  We walked into Epsom, caught the train, and then got a bus from Wimbledon station to Sissy's house.  It's a long time since I got a London bus.  I remember the drivers as stroppy, unhelpful beings, reluctant to offer change or advise on destinations arrived at.  But this bus driver was wonderful.  He had a honey-rich, dark chocolate voice that melted in your ears, and trickled gooily all the way down your auditory canal until you nearly gargled with pleasure on it in the back of your own throat.  I could happily have asked him silly questions all day.  He told me where I wanted to get off, offered to shout me for the stop, and cheerfully gave change when I gave him £2 for a £1.60 fare.  And then he really did shout us when we got to the stop.  Though he needn't have, as I knew where we were, but still.

Walking from the bus stop to Sissy's house, I became aware that my daughter is now attracting nearly as much, if not more, attention on the street than I do.  Which is kind of strange.  I was aware that we were getting lots of looks from late adolescents - her, obviously! - but lots from younger men, too - could have been either of us - and a fair few from sad old fucks as well - me, probably.  (ok, probably all her, but allow me to retain some delusions, won't you?!).  It's a bizarre thing, this moment when the rest of the world recognises your child as a sexual object, even in such an abstract kind of way.  So I felt slightly unsettled, and in need of adjustment by the time we got to Sissy's!

A cup of tea, a gossip and some Laura Ashley moments later, we were on our way again.  Another bus back to Wimbledon.  This time the driver was an unshaven, designer stubble type with dark hair and blue eyes you could almost drown in.  Not unlike George Michael in the Wham days.  Also very friendly.  To Moo.  "Are you modelling?" he asked her.  Bloody hell!  It's a bit much!  And then his gaze followed her all the way down the aisle to our seats, and found her there in his mirror whenever we were stopped.  Fairly often, then.  And she noticed.  All very, very disorientating and really, I'm not old enough.  I just want you to know that, OK?  I was sold into sex slavery when I was 7, and Moo was the result of that when I was oooh, 10 or so I guess.  Alright?

Wimbledon didn't disappoint, and I bought the first suit I saw.  It's rather lovely, actually.  Pale green linen trouser suit with sage green topstitch detail from H&M.  Lovely and cheap.  I wore it with a cream t shirt and the brown Carvela shoes, which Sissy gave lent me.  Very classy.  Though it will probably only be very classy for another couple of outings, in the manner of cheap and cheerful clothes.

So, triumphantly clad in my could-have-been-bought-anywhere purchases, I trundled up to Warwick the following day, and had a very good interview.  When I returned to my car in the Visitors' Car Park and turned my phone on again, I noticed that the battery was dangerously low.  Rang my ageing parent with the carful of my children, and established they were still on the motorway.  Still Warwick-bound.  So I explained about the battery and said I'd meet him at the Castle car park.  Well, it only took me 15 minutes at the most to get to the car park, so banking yet again on the uniform anonymity of the Great British High Street, I thought I'd just pop to Carphone Whorehouse and get a car charger for my phone.  So I asked the car park attendant at the castle where the nearest phone shop might be. 

"Leamington", he answered. 

Ha ha!  I thought.  Funny sense of humour, these midlands folk.  I'll just go wander round Warwick and find one nestled between Next and Virgin Megastores, just round the corner from Bay Trading and the Bradford & Bingley, probably. 

Feeling confident, smug, and slightly supercilious, I parked up and walked, following signs for Historic Warwick.  Sure enough I stumbled upon the High Street in no time at all.  I recognised it instantly.  There was Woolworths, and there, just opposite, Boots.  And just over there.... oh.  Um, oh.  Well that was it, really.  Woolworths, Boots, a Help the Aged shop, some tea rooms and a plethora of Olde Antique Shoppes. 

Bugger!  Bastard!  Bollocks!  Where is this alien place I've landed?  Oh well, it's bound to be just round the next corner.  I went into Help the Aged. 

"Excuse me, can you tell me where the nearest phone shop is, please?" 
"Oooh, now I don't think there is one in Warwick.  There was one, wasn't there, Dora?  Yes, there was one, but it closed.  I think Leamington's your best bet, luvvie".

Blimey.  He really meant it.  Well, I didn't have time to go to Leamington, so I went back to the car part to await the arrival of ageing parent and the immoderate hordes of children.  And suffered the ignominy of being phone-less until the evening, when I got home and found my charger. 

So, that blows the argument about the British High Street out of the water then, doesn't it?  If you want a town with individuality and character, Warwick's your place.  Just don't forget your phone charger.

Home again, at last!  And before the day is done, I must weed through the job adverts I still want to go for, bang out a couple of CVs and do some gardening.  Oh, and run.  No rest for the wicked, indeed.  The dog has come home from kennels (£80!!!) with an ear infection, so needs to go to the vet, and I reckon he's uninsured so I must ring Sainsburys first.  Shan't use that kennel again.  Mutter mutter.  Actually, it's only when we go to my Mum's that he needs to go to kennels as my stepfather simply won't tolerate dogs.  Otherwise, he comes with, so it's not that big an issue.  Mum has made contact with the kennel who looked after her dogs, who seem much cheaper and were really pleased to hear from her, and would *love* to have a dog of hers again, and yada yada.  So he'll be coming most of the way there with us, next time.

So I'm brewing a couple of posts.  One will follow soonish and one maybe later.  And while you read them, think of me slaving over the flowerbeds and trying to beat the wilderness into shape.  Bonfire day tomorrow, I think!

This morning I ran 3.26km, 3628 steps,  8.9 km/h in 21:50 minutes.  And I ran it superbly, with grace and elegance.  Everything flowed.  The pace was right, the breathing was right, it was all just *there*.

I think it was Mum's home made treacle tart what done it.  I'm holding that responsible, anyway, and have ordered one for the night before the race.  It seems only fair, really.

Then today everyone has struggled to recover from the lost hour.  Easter bunny managed to leave a trail of mini eggs all round the house, and fuelled by sugar the little people have bickered and whinged their way through the day.  Mum made an enormous meal at lunchtime; a full-on production number.  And very delicious it was, too.

In all, despite the bickering, I feel very relaxed and spoiled.  It's rather wonderful; I could get used to it!

I have lots to write about, but it seems rude to tap away in someone else's house, so here's a little preview of subjects that may be got round to when I get home.  There's the one about the AA; Warwick and its lack of Carphone Whorehouses; and there was something else - what was it again?  Phoenix knows...

Anyhoo, happy the rest of easter everyone.

3.22km, 3587 steps, 8.9 km/h, 21.37 minutes.  Oh yes, I am the god of sticking to training schedules.  Or at least a fairly significant neophyte.

While it's true that Lincolnshire is significantly flatter than Surrey, it's also true that the roads haven't been much updated since the Romans first built them.  I guess it was different if you were marching in a battalion of thousands of men, all wearing the same dress as you.  I guess you didn't mind so much being able to see for miles and miles around you in every direction.  It probably took your mind off the sea of red tunics and spears or something.  But frankly, speaking as a 21st century runner, the odd blind bend would be very welcome.  Being able to think "I'm sure I can give up round the next corner" is a damn good incentive.  Being able to *see* two miles ahead of you and know exactly how far  you've still got to get through is, frankly, just a little discouraging.