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Sep 13

You know how some people look like their pets?

Well, I’m going to have to seriously consider adopting a whippet. Or a greyhound. Those who know me will think this is all to do with the fact that I’m going to enduring The Great North Run this Sunday (twenty-one loooong kilometres of running, or thirteen point something even longer miles, if you’re all imperial) and being whippetlike or greyhoundish would certainly be helpful.

But no.

That’s not it. That’s not it AT ALL.

It’s purely for aesthetic reasons that I’d require a skinny dog.

How long do you think before I start looking like my pet? [she says with a strange and desperate gleam in her eye]

(Did someone say they’re gonna send me a bulldog, special delivery? Really? You’d do that to me?)

Sigh. I guess the bottom line is that, really, I should have been training properly for Sunday’s race. If I’d knuckled down and got on with it, I’d be a perfectly healthy individual instead of someone with bigger basoomas than ever before, and a butt that would make airlines worry for their economy seating. And I deserve it. Oh, I do. I eat a lot, plus a lot of chocolate. Has it been worth it? My two-year binge? Erm. Sometimes.

The penance of lugging my lardy self round such an excruciating distance in four days (FOURDAYS!FOURDAYS!ohgodohgodohgod) is going to be stomach cramps at the finish line. I know this because I’ve done a few loooong runs with the boozy bookclubbers who got me into this race in the first place (it was messy; someone’s laptop went round for online registration; a credit card went round for online paying; it all happened so fast) . . .

What was I saying?

Oh yes.

So on the rare occasions when I’ve staggered about for longer than an hour and a halfish, I’ve had to hurtle home for a prett-y horr-endous loo session.

Sorry. Too much information. But my concern is this: how far are the Portaloos from the finish line?

And:

Will I make it in time?

It doesn’t bear thinking about. So let’s not. But if the worst happens I know who to blame – starting with the loudest: EmmaAnnaKimShanaClaireJanJo. And it doesn’t stop there. HoohhNO. Recent email banter insists that we have to go Geordie out there in Geordieland (is it okay to say Geordie? It’s not offensive or anything is it?) for a post-race shindig and wear heels.

Now there’s something you need to know about my intellectual bookclubby lovelies. When they say HEELS they mean STIIIIILETOOOOES. (Even sensible StellaAngeliLaura who just Said No to this silly race.) So stilettoes? After 21km with blisters and blue toenails?!

Seriously?!

Oh, all right then. I’m in.

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