Return of the living dead

It's six thirty on a Sunday afternoon and finally the dirty wanderer returns.  Literally filthy.

Chris has been away on a stag do.  From the moment I heard the itinery I knew it would be a disaster, after all a 60 mile bike ride from London to Brighton is no-one's idea of a laugh, surely.  So whilst I was busy blitzing this house and dealing with a quad of marauding children he was developing a severe case of saddle ass.  Sounds like everything that could go wrong did.  Firstly the bike ride that was scheduled to take six hours ended up taking nine, which in the wet drizzling rain is practically torture; on returning to their accommodation (the Stag's flat) the key wouldn't work so they had to wait outside for two hours until the locksmith arrived to let them back in.  By this time they had been out in the cold, wet, miserable London air for over twelve hours, could barely walk and hadn't eaten all day so decided to cancel the night's activities.  Leaving a bunch of friends and colleagues out for a Stag night in the smoke without the stag or his best man.

Then this morning crisis struck a second time when Chris went to fetch his car.  He had parked around the corner from the flat and somehow between the car and the flat he managed to fit in a prolonged detour of London.  I was receiving manic phone calls from his comrades who after half an hour realised he was missing, and realised too that he had left his phone behind.  Schoolboy error.  In the end, after several phone calls to the Police they located him in a street nearby.   Apparently he had tried to ask a lady pedestrian for help, pulling along side her saying (and I quote) "excuse me I am in a real pickle" to which she replied "and since when is that my problem?".  Don't you just love those kind charity loving London folk.   I can perhaps understand her reticence considering the fact that in an attempt to prevent the car mats from getting muddy he'd tied two carrier bags around his feet, reminiscent of a scene from American Psycho. 

And finally on the way home, the engine blew up.  So for three hours Chris and his brother were stranded at Roddington Services awaiting a tow.  And you thought you were having a bad day!  Our car is a piece of crap which is why we are trading it in on Wednesday.  It just needs to be able to travel the two and a half miles to the Peugeout garage and thankfully it's mostly downhill.

Anyway if you, like me, are a tad superstitious, you may consider the weekend as an omen of impending doom upon the forthcoming nuptuals.  I am definitely predicting a divorce before the year is out.  And the chances for their marriage aren't looking great either.  The good news is with all that pain in his derrier, access to conjugal rights is unlikely to be required tonight, proving the silver-lined clouds theory.

Amid all this commotion it has occured to me that my eleven weeks are now officially up.  You'll remember that my original goal, right at the start, was to drop two dress sizes and run a half marathon within that time.  Hmph.  I haven't achieved either.   Well actually I have run several marathons - just not all in the same day.  Unlike Eddie Izzard whose documentary I watched the other night (42 marathons in a row) and since then cannot think of anyone else.  Is it wrong to covet a man you've never met??.  I truly want his babies.  

I have however dropped almost a dress size (don't ask me to quantify how I measured that) and I can run five miles without a break, albeit only when Corrinna is chasing me, but still a noteworthy feat though I do say so myself.   Therefore I am going to try to find a half marathon in June/July time and set myself a new more achievable target. 

Meanwhile if anyone is up for it I am planning a 25 mile bike ride on the 8th May around Leicestershire.  It's an organised event via the British Heart Foundation, and if you're feeling really energetic they are including a 40 and 60 mile distance also. 

You know you want to.

x x