And didn’t even have to hitch a ride home in an ambulance... Now that’s what I call a RESULT.
In actual fact, I really enjoyed the event (which was a surprise because I have found the last two events hard – and they were less than half the distance of this one). There was just a really good atmosphere – starting off in the Don Valley Stadium was almost like being a “proper” athlete. Indeed, for a brief moment, I was sharing the same track space with some of those elite athletes who probably finished the event in under an hour. (No, I can’t name any of them. I suspect that most of the “elite” elite athletes were in London today taking part in some run or other – obviously, no one was watching that – no, all eyes in the athletics world were, without doubt, on Sheffield today). The period of time I was sharing the track with them, was, to be fair, extremely brief being as they were gone in nano-seconds, whereas it took me quite a long time to even break into a run after the firing pistol went off (being, as I was, right at the back of the starting line along with all the other slow runners – in fact, the girl standing next to me had a broken arm and didn’t intend to run at all).
Then it was a nice steady downhill run into town, and there was loads of support along the way. We ran past the fire station and some of the firemen were outside cheering us on; we ran past the Crucible where the snooker is on at the moment and some of the people from that were outside cheering too. I had a low point at around the 8 mile mark (just as we were running up Ecclesall Road). It was the only really sustained uphill section of the whole course. Fortunately, it was thronged with students and the support was really good. I also saw my friend and her husband at the end and that cheered me up enough to run the next 7 miles.
If I had a criticism, it would be this: The people at the 10 mile mark should not have been shouting “Nearly there now!” There was another sodding three miles to go and it was just offering false hope. Still, it did feel like we were nearly there at that point. I enjoyed it. On the whole it was good. And because it was Sheffield, everybody was friendly and took the time to chat on the way (comparing notes about the vileness of the energy drink which was being offered – at least I know my gag reflexes still work). I even, in a moment of extreme athletic professionalism, had a Paula Radcliffe moment. (OK, I didn’t win or beat my personal best – but I did have to go for a wee in a bush).
All in all, by the time I reached the 13 mile mark (and I must admit I did feel like crying real tears of joy at the sight of it by that time), I didn’t feel in too bad shape. Especially when I compare myself with the grown men who were having to be carted off in ambulances and the bloke I saw who was walking along barefoot, carrying his trainers in his hand, his feet bleeding. Obviously, I felt awful after the event. I still feel pretty bad now. My knees are killing me. It’s not good for you – it really isn’t, but at the time of completion (and before I had to walk back to the car) I felt pretty good. I even managed to eat the complimentary yoghurty flapjack (also vile) without being sick. However, by the time I reached the car I had started to feel pretty shoddy and it took a whole packet of dextrose tablets to feel strong enough to brave the journey back home.
But that does not detract from my enjoyment of the event. I would say that it’s been one of my favourites so far. One of the best moments for me was when I was running next to two blokes just by JE James Cycles and one turned to the other and said “I can’t be doing with this, shall we find a pub?” The other responded, “Ahh, there’s one at the end of the road.” I don’t know if they were joking. Perhaps so. What I can say is that I never saw them again throughout the duration of the race.
Sunday, 26 April 2009
Thursday, 23 April 2009
Greetings from the Under-crackers of the Athletics World
Because this, it seems, is firmly where I am in the hierarchy of the runners who are participating in the Great Edinburgh Run the weekend after next. Here... Check it out... Take a look at the picture of the start arrangements for this event. (I, as if any clarification were needed, have been assigned a place in the ‘pink’ wave).
Now, does it, or does it not, look just like a little pair of pants worn by Forrest Road and Bristo Place? And, there, I can assure you, is exactly where I’ll be – one of the many runners who have been assigned the official “Crap” label by the Great Run Organisation (don’t even get me started on those bastards) and thus being safely encased in the pink panty area of the run. (The question is where do I stand? Should I go for the end of one of the legs or the crotch? Oooh, decisions, decisions). Ironically, I would even have been wearing pink up until last Sunday.
Last Sunday something momentous happened. I made a new running T-shirt. Yes, MADE. Okay, I’m not very good at making things. I’ll admit it. But I was engulfed by a sudden new wave of enthusiasm for the runs and all the organisation behind the fundraising etc and so decided (since I’m skint – credit crunch and all) to make a new T-shirt. It’s all very punk rock and DIY. In fact, I wanted it to look very punk rock and went for a load of mismatched letters cut out from other old, unwanted T-shirts to spell out “Weston 100” and then my justgiving address at the bottom of the T-shirt (that was a bit harder – I wish I didn’t have such a long name. You try spelling “Val Derbyshire” out of just offcuts of old T-shirts.) I wanted it to look very Sex Pistols – I have a suspicion it’s more Blue Peter than Sex Pistols. It might even just be a bit rubbish, but I’m going to wear it anyway. I have to wear it for two reasons (1) I cannot afford the printing costs for another fundraising charity T-shirt – I was never really happy with the last one anyway so was reluctant to fork out more cash on it (2) I have nothing else to wear now that I have cut up most of my running T-shirts to make this one (Well I had to get all those letters to spell my ridiculously long name out from somewhere). So, the bottom line (ha, ha – bottom line – get it? Pants and all... Oh, never mind); The bottom line is that I’m going to be right at home in my crap home-made T-shirt in the crappy bottom pant-clad area of the start line of the Great Edinburgh Run.
But what, I hear you cry, caused this sudden spurt of new enthusiasm? Well, maybe not cry, but I’ll tell you anyway. Last Saturday I sat next to a new bloke during my shift at William Hill. Now all sorts of people work there for all sorts of reasons, but this bloke was working there because he was using the income from his part-time job to finance his training as a discus thrower. Now, I’ve never met a discus thrower before, or indeed anyone who is as serious about athletics and training to be an athlete of an international standard as he was. He was utterly focussed and determined upon his ambition of reaching the goals he had set for himself. It did me good to sit next to him (even if he did smirk in a somewhat patronising way when I told him about the amateur standard road races I have done – he’s probably entitled to feel a bit smug about our comparative athletic abilities – I, after all, was not the one drinking creatine shakes during break time – I went for the slightly less recognised sports diet of eating a bit of Easter Egg filched from the kids’ stash). Anyway, it did me good to hear him talk about his ambitions and his training plans and it motivated me to get up early on Sunday morning and do a 12 mile training run because I thought, if he can be that focussed and determined, then I can get through this challenge too. He, after all, was talking about dedicating his whole life to it. It’s only about a year out of my life. This time in six months’ time it will all be over. (Fill in your own "Thank God")
Last Sunday something momentous happened. I made a new running T-shirt. Yes, MADE. Okay, I’m not very good at making things. I’ll admit it. But I was engulfed by a sudden new wave of enthusiasm for the runs and all the organisation behind the fundraising etc and so decided (since I’m skint – credit crunch and all) to make a new T-shirt. It’s all very punk rock and DIY. In fact, I wanted it to look very punk rock and went for a load of mismatched letters cut out from other old, unwanted T-shirts to spell out “Weston 100” and then my justgiving address at the bottom of the T-shirt (that was a bit harder – I wish I didn’t have such a long name. You try spelling “Val Derbyshire” out of just offcuts of old T-shirts.) I wanted it to look very Sex Pistols – I have a suspicion it’s more Blue Peter than Sex Pistols. It might even just be a bit rubbish, but I’m going to wear it anyway. I have to wear it for two reasons (1) I cannot afford the printing costs for another fundraising charity T-shirt – I was never really happy with the last one anyway so was reluctant to fork out more cash on it (2) I have nothing else to wear now that I have cut up most of my running T-shirts to make this one (Well I had to get all those letters to spell my ridiculously long name out from somewhere). So, the bottom line (ha, ha – bottom line – get it? Pants and all... Oh, never mind); The bottom line is that I’m going to be right at home in my crap home-made T-shirt in the crappy bottom pant-clad area of the start line of the Great Edinburgh Run.
But what, I hear you cry, caused this sudden spurt of new enthusiasm? Well, maybe not cry, but I’ll tell you anyway. Last Saturday I sat next to a new bloke during my shift at William Hill. Now all sorts of people work there for all sorts of reasons, but this bloke was working there because he was using the income from his part-time job to finance his training as a discus thrower. Now, I’ve never met a discus thrower before, or indeed anyone who is as serious about athletics and training to be an athlete of an international standard as he was. He was utterly focussed and determined upon his ambition of reaching the goals he had set for himself. It did me good to sit next to him (even if he did smirk in a somewhat patronising way when I told him about the amateur standard road races I have done – he’s probably entitled to feel a bit smug about our comparative athletic abilities – I, after all, was not the one drinking creatine shakes during break time – I went for the slightly less recognised sports diet of eating a bit of Easter Egg filched from the kids’ stash). Anyway, it did me good to hear him talk about his ambitions and his training plans and it motivated me to get up early on Sunday morning and do a 12 mile training run because I thought, if he can be that focussed and determined, then I can get through this challenge too. He, after all, was talking about dedicating his whole life to it. It’s only about a year out of my life. This time in six months’ time it will all be over. (Fill in your own "Thank God")
So I went out and ran 12 miles on Sunday. I had to stop four times (once for a coughing fit – not a good sign); the second time to get a dextrose energy tablet out (longer distances merit these, I feel); the third and fourth times to answer calls about the mother-in-law who had apparently fainted (don’t take a phone out with you if you run. I know there’s a safety aspect there, but it’s much easier not to have to deal with these problems when you’re 7 miles into a 12 mile run).
Why was I running so far? Well, this Sunday – yes, that’s in 3 days’ time!!! – I’m running the Sheffield Half-Marathon. Yes, my first half-marathon event. At least this one is a big one. I’ll get lost in the crowd of 5,499 other people who are running it along with me. This, however, will not happen in the Buxton Half-Marathon, which incidentally, requires a run up several very large hills – No, sadly, in this event of around 250 people (most of them serious runners and members of athletics clubs) my ineptitude is going to be glaringly obvious – perhaps they’d like to start thinking about their pants-shaped wave start now too. Anyway, look out for me in Sheff if you’re passing through this Sunday. Lots of the roads will be closed so there will be traffic chaos everywhere I should have thought. I’m number 2485, but you’ll recognise the Sex Pistols/Blue Peter style running garb anyway.
Thursday, 16 April 2009
The Easter Bunny has seriously trashed the training regime...
A strong allegation I know. I mean, who doesn’t like the Easter Bunny? He’s a symbol of hope and the coming Spring, not to mention the chocolate... But then again, there’s the Easter holidays from school. Now that the children are both at home and not tied up with school, etc, (i.e. with someone else looking after them) I can’t get out and run. Don’t get me wrong – it’s nice having them at home and all and I’m particularly enjoying not having to get up at the crack of a*** to chivvy two recalcitrant children out of their nice warm beds and into school and nursery respectively, but I can’t exactly just slip out for a run now that they’re at home all day every day. Plus – and this is the final insult to injury – it seems when they don’t have to get up at 06.40 hours every day, they decide that actually, it’s quite good fun to – they particularly enjoy getting up at some unearthly hour and playing a game together outside my bedroom door. It doesn’t really matter what the game is. Any kind of game – as long as it’s noisy. (This morning’s involved throwing toy cars at the bedroom wall). So, in short, the upshot of this is, I’m still getting up at the crack of anyway.
None of this would be a problem if my husband was around to help out like he usually is. Sadly, this being Easter time, and therefore, as I have said, Spring time, and being as my husband is an ecologist, and every newt/toad/bird/badger/bat in the world is breeding at this time of year, this is a really busy time for him, and he is out early every morning and late every night surveying/counting/ generally looking after the interests of every amphibian/mammal/bird in the South Yorkshire/Derbyshire/Manchester areas. I've hardly seen him during this school holidays (although this may be a deliberate ploy on his part just to evade the worst excesses of the children after too much chocolate). I've almost forgotten what he looks like. Still, he spent Tuesday night on a landfill site near Manchester looking for Great Crested Newts, so it's not all been fun and games for him (he assures me).
And then, as I mentioned before, there’s the chocolate... The kids got loads this year. I mean LOADS. We had an Easter egg hunt in the garden with some of their little friends and they found about 10 small chocolate eggs apiece during that. Then there were the other, bigger, chocolate eggs. The lucky so and so’s got two each from Thornton’s, TWO Lindor gold rabbits each, a chocolate buttons egg, two Kinnerton Chocolate character eggs, a Milky Bar egg each, two Thornton Easter Bunny lollipops, and so on and so on... The list just goes on and every time I go into the pantry it’s all there... Just piled up... A great big delicious mountain of chocolate. I’ve got no willpower. I keep pinching bits. I am, officially, the worst mother in the world. And I know... I KNOW the chocolate is officially the property of the children and I shouldn’t be half-inching it (I mean if they can’t trust their own mother who can they trust?), but I just can’t help myself... So there’s another reason I can’t run a faster 10k... The extra stone I’m carrying which is made up entirely of Cadbury’s Cream Eggs (I particularly can’t resist those miniature ones... I can’t just pinch one of those... I have to steal about twenty).
And finally, because it is school holiday time, and because my sister’s a teacher, it’s holiday time for her too, she’s come to stay for the week, which has just been brilliant. It has, however, meant lots of luxurious treat-style outings to places like Chatsworth House (large picnic and cream tea); Buxton Pavilion Gardens (luxury hot chocolate with marshmallows and whipped cream, complete with toasted teacake – and you would have thought I should have been able to control myself here too – especially being as one of my events is the Buxton Half-Marathon and every time I go there nowadays I look at the hills around there and think, Oh My God, What was I thinking?) and tomorrow I’m going out for a large Italian meal with her. All fantastic stuff (apart from the Pavilion Gardens, which, probably after the sugar rush, induced the biggest tantrum I’ve ever seen in my youngest son. I literally had to carry him bodily out of there whilst he kicked out at me and screamed at the top of his lungs. There’s another place I can never show my face in again – which is a shame – because the Art Cafe at the Pavilion Gardens is really nice now that it’s all been refurbished – This, I hasten to add, did nothing for my stress levels which I usually manage to keep quite nicely under control with the training I do – running is a great stress buster). However, it’s not great for healthy eating and has done absolutely nothing for the training I should be doing.
So, in short, what Easter has meant for me this year is extra calories (too many of) and cutting down on runs (much too much of). And, being as my next event is the Sheffield Half-Marathon and being as this event is in precisely ten days’ time, I’m in trouble. Somebody hand over that bunny... I’m gonna bite his head off.
Sunday, 5 April 2009
Twice around the ponds...
Photo 1: Approaching Beecher's Brook.
Photo 2: Oh Yes! No fallers here.
Photo 3: Why am I doing this again?
So I did the Theo’s 10k today which represents the third of the events I’m entered into and means that I’ve now run 15 miles out of the 100 I’ve promised to do. It went okay. I guess. I mean, the first lap went okay. I actually felt pretty good up until the 5k mark. I think, actually, the 5k might be my ideal distance because after I’d passed that point (once round the two lakes at Rother Valley Country Park) I started to feel pretty ropey. By the end of the twice round the ponds bit, I was barely running at all. I certainly didn’t manage the enthusiastic sprint finish I mustered for the Dronfield 10k and I have to admit, the one thought which was perpetually recurring as I ran those last few yards was “So why am I doing this again? This is not fun. This is just stupid.”
It’s been a bad couple of weeks really. I haven’t managed to train all this week because I caught some horrible flu-like virus off the kids. I’ve had all the most horrible symptoms: hacking cough, shivering, aching legs and joints, tiredness and a splitting headache. I managed a 7 mile run a week last Friday and felt pretty much like death warmed up the whole way round. That was another “So why am I doing this again?” moment. After that I thought the wisest course would be to try and rest up before the event today – on the premise that this would either make me run a fantastic race because I was so supremely rested (this is what I thought was going to happen on the first lap of the lakes) or I’d just feel crap because I hadn’t trained properly for the event (second lap).
The horrible flu-like virus resulted in a really bad case of nappy rash for my youngest son, so in a moment of extreme madness, probably whilst suffering from the hallucinogenic effects of a high temperature, I convinced myself that NOW – this precise time - this week, when we’re all really ill – would be a good time to start potty training! What can you say to that? I am a moron. Anyway – despite our collective illnesses – my youngest son (who is, incidentally 3 ½ now, so should really have been wearing pants long ago but we’ve just been too lazy to get onto it) took to wearing big boys’ undercrackers surprisingly well. The week was marred by just two incidents (apart from the illness). (1) Whilst delivering some letters in Bakewell my son was seized by a sudden and urgent need to wee. Small children just can’t wait, especially when they’re only just in pants, so we stopped at what I thought was an unobtrusive spot and I let him have a quick wee against a wall. Relieved, he hopped back into his buggy and we carried on delivering our letters. A short while later, on our return journey, we passed the same wall only to discover a hostile pensioner self-righteously cleaning the self-same wall where my son had just proudly marked his territory. He was cleaning the tiny puddle up with a PRESSURE WASHER. Part of me was abashed. I hate confrontation and I didn’t want to have a row in the street about the fact that I had just let my son pee up against this bloke’s wall. Part of me was amazed. I mean, a PRESSURE WASHER? Oh for God’s sake... It was only a small boy’s tiny little bit of wee. Part of me wanted to shout “GET A LIFE” at the miserable old bugger. Discretion being the better part of valour and all, I beat a hasty retreat and pretended I knew nothing whatsoever about the matter. I got away with nothing more than a few angry glances shot in our direction, but I fully expect an article to appear in the paper about the “Moral decline in mothers”. Bakewell is just that kind of place. After all, last week there was a full half page article about a rat which has had the temerity to take up residence in the Bath Gardens. How dare it? The person (the aptly named Mr Strange) reporting the incident has clearly stated that the rat’s days are numbered. He knows where it lives (under the steps of the Conservative club apparently. Even more appropriate – even the rats are Tories here, it seems). Any newspaper which dedicates half a page of news space to a rat is clearly really short on news. (If they had done this in Sheffield – I mean dedicated paragraphs of newspaper space to “Rat News” - the Sheffield Star would be a very fat paper indeed). The toddler urinating on a wall feature is surely the stuff of front page news? Although they might ask me to write my own article about it – but more about that later.
The second “incident” occurred in the car park of a soft play centre I took my two children to on the first day of the Easter holidays. Shortly after leaving the play centre my youngest once more announced he needed a wee. Sadly, it was just a little too late because within seconds of the announcement, a huge stream erupted through his trousers leading him to walk like John Wayne across the car park to our car and a convenient place to change into dry pants and trousers. This is where the trouble began. Upon removing his trousers I found that he’d also started... well... to have a poo in his trousers as well. My friend lent me her little girl’s potty (apparently, you should always carry a potty with you just for this reason... And from now on, the lesson is learned... I always will) and my youngest son sat quite happily in the car park having a poo with a largeish audience of fellow toddlers and builders who happened to be working nearby in the area standing by admiringly and shouting the odd piece of encouragement or advice. My son didn’t find this remotely embarrassing (he left that to me). There was a bit of a mess to clean up in the end (I owe my friend some baby wipes which I also forgot – I’m such an amateur at all this. All I had were some tissues with John Wayne leanings as well – i.e. rough, tough and takes no crap off anyone) but it wasn’t too bad I suppose. On the whole, it wasn’t as bad as the grumpy pensioner incident, although it did lead to me having to drive home, all the way through Matlock Bath, with a turd in a bag on the seat next to me. But never mind. Apart from that – the potty training has gone surprisingly well, really. All things considered, especially.
Some other things have gone well this week too. It’s not all doom and gloom. This week, I have received some responses to an email which I sent a while ago to a few local papers about the fundraising I am doing for the Weston Park Hospital Cancer Charity. Someone from the Sheffield Star emailed me to ask me for my telephone number so that they could phone me and talk to me about what I am doing –and then never phoned (Okay – the news isn’t that promising). Someone else from the Peak Advertiser (local paper, but different one to the one featuring “Rat News”) emailed me with: “Thank you for your email, if you would like to send something we will put it in for you.” i.e. Oh write it yourself, we can’t be bothered. I duly wrote something and sent it in. I don’t think it’s been printed yet but we don’t always get the paper delivered. It’s a bit hit and miss – so it could be in and I’ve just missed it – or there could be too much news concerning rats and pissing toddlers this week to have space for it. I just don’t know.
However, there have been other factors, apart from illness, which have made for a difficult week. This Saturday was the Grand National – arguably the biggest date in the horse-racing calendar and the busiest day of William Hill’s year. I worked a steady 13 ½ hour shift which included a generous 20 minutes for lunch. Lunch was laid on free but consisted of sandwiches which had obviously been made by those girls off The Apprentice who skimped on the fillings to save money and generate more profit. So bread sandwiches, basically. It went okay. I mean it was busy and we had the inevitable technical problems and by 3pm I was having problems speaking coherently, but it went okay. There were two things which actually made it (very surprisingly – because I, along with nearly everybody else who is employed in the gambling industry, apart from those who stand to make a lot of money out of it, was utterly dreading it) a very enjoyable experience. (1) On the way into work I nipped into Sainsbury’s to buy a coffee and saw from the front cover of Q magazine that Green Day are about to release a new album. Hurray! What’s not to be happy about that? (2) I actually met the man from William Hill who facilitated William Hill’s agreement in their matching the money I raise up to a sum of £3k. Because it was such a big day for the call centre, there were lots of the guys in suits around, visiting from London and seeing how we were all getting on I suppose, and he was one of them. I was just so delighted to meet him. He is, genuinely, after the wonderful thing he has arranged for my fundraising, my hero. Nearly as big a hero to me as Tre Cool. Obviously, nobody is going to be able to live up to Mr Cool himself – but he comes pretty close. Meeting him was definitely, the high point of my day – even better than 4.21pm when that race finally went off after two false starts.
So, in answer to the question I asked myself at the beginning of this entry – “Why am I doing all this again?” Well, because people like my hero from William Hill believe in me enough to invest in what I’m doing with real money for the Weston Park Hospital. And, despite the problems, the illnesses, the crap times (yes, this race, despite the fact that it was entirely on the flat, actually took me longer to complete than the Dronfield 10K – a good proportion of which was uphill) and despite the fact that I am still, quite clearly, in spite of all the training I’ve done and time I’ve invested myself into this – still utterly rubbish at running – I am going to do this. Believe in me too – and the best way to manifest your utter belief that I will be suffering through the Sheffield half marathon in three weeks’ time (three weeks!!! Agghghghgh) is to sponsor me at http://www.justgiving.com/valderbyshire All of the funds raised from this insane attempt to have a life beyond the bowel movements of small children will go directly to the Weston Park Hospital Cancer Charity to help sufferers of the disease in our region and fund research into treatments into the disease.
It’s been a bad couple of weeks really. I haven’t managed to train all this week because I caught some horrible flu-like virus off the kids. I’ve had all the most horrible symptoms: hacking cough, shivering, aching legs and joints, tiredness and a splitting headache. I managed a 7 mile run a week last Friday and felt pretty much like death warmed up the whole way round. That was another “So why am I doing this again?” moment. After that I thought the wisest course would be to try and rest up before the event today – on the premise that this would either make me run a fantastic race because I was so supremely rested (this is what I thought was going to happen on the first lap of the lakes) or I’d just feel crap because I hadn’t trained properly for the event (second lap).
The horrible flu-like virus resulted in a really bad case of nappy rash for my youngest son, so in a moment of extreme madness, probably whilst suffering from the hallucinogenic effects of a high temperature, I convinced myself that NOW – this precise time - this week, when we’re all really ill – would be a good time to start potty training! What can you say to that? I am a moron. Anyway – despite our collective illnesses – my youngest son (who is, incidentally 3 ½ now, so should really have been wearing pants long ago but we’ve just been too lazy to get onto it) took to wearing big boys’ undercrackers surprisingly well. The week was marred by just two incidents (apart from the illness). (1) Whilst delivering some letters in Bakewell my son was seized by a sudden and urgent need to wee. Small children just can’t wait, especially when they’re only just in pants, so we stopped at what I thought was an unobtrusive spot and I let him have a quick wee against a wall. Relieved, he hopped back into his buggy and we carried on delivering our letters. A short while later, on our return journey, we passed the same wall only to discover a hostile pensioner self-righteously cleaning the self-same wall where my son had just proudly marked his territory. He was cleaning the tiny puddle up with a PRESSURE WASHER. Part of me was abashed. I hate confrontation and I didn’t want to have a row in the street about the fact that I had just let my son pee up against this bloke’s wall. Part of me was amazed. I mean, a PRESSURE WASHER? Oh for God’s sake... It was only a small boy’s tiny little bit of wee. Part of me wanted to shout “GET A LIFE” at the miserable old bugger. Discretion being the better part of valour and all, I beat a hasty retreat and pretended I knew nothing whatsoever about the matter. I got away with nothing more than a few angry glances shot in our direction, but I fully expect an article to appear in the paper about the “Moral decline in mothers”. Bakewell is just that kind of place. After all, last week there was a full half page article about a rat which has had the temerity to take up residence in the Bath Gardens. How dare it? The person (the aptly named Mr Strange) reporting the incident has clearly stated that the rat’s days are numbered. He knows where it lives (under the steps of the Conservative club apparently. Even more appropriate – even the rats are Tories here, it seems). Any newspaper which dedicates half a page of news space to a rat is clearly really short on news. (If they had done this in Sheffield – I mean dedicated paragraphs of newspaper space to “Rat News” - the Sheffield Star would be a very fat paper indeed). The toddler urinating on a wall feature is surely the stuff of front page news? Although they might ask me to write my own article about it – but more about that later.
The second “incident” occurred in the car park of a soft play centre I took my two children to on the first day of the Easter holidays. Shortly after leaving the play centre my youngest once more announced he needed a wee. Sadly, it was just a little too late because within seconds of the announcement, a huge stream erupted through his trousers leading him to walk like John Wayne across the car park to our car and a convenient place to change into dry pants and trousers. This is where the trouble began. Upon removing his trousers I found that he’d also started... well... to have a poo in his trousers as well. My friend lent me her little girl’s potty (apparently, you should always carry a potty with you just for this reason... And from now on, the lesson is learned... I always will) and my youngest son sat quite happily in the car park having a poo with a largeish audience of fellow toddlers and builders who happened to be working nearby in the area standing by admiringly and shouting the odd piece of encouragement or advice. My son didn’t find this remotely embarrassing (he left that to me). There was a bit of a mess to clean up in the end (I owe my friend some baby wipes which I also forgot – I’m such an amateur at all this. All I had were some tissues with John Wayne leanings as well – i.e. rough, tough and takes no crap off anyone) but it wasn’t too bad I suppose. On the whole, it wasn’t as bad as the grumpy pensioner incident, although it did lead to me having to drive home, all the way through Matlock Bath, with a turd in a bag on the seat next to me. But never mind. Apart from that – the potty training has gone surprisingly well, really. All things considered, especially.
Some other things have gone well this week too. It’s not all doom and gloom. This week, I have received some responses to an email which I sent a while ago to a few local papers about the fundraising I am doing for the Weston Park Hospital Cancer Charity. Someone from the Sheffield Star emailed me to ask me for my telephone number so that they could phone me and talk to me about what I am doing –and then never phoned (Okay – the news isn’t that promising). Someone else from the Peak Advertiser (local paper, but different one to the one featuring “Rat News”) emailed me with: “Thank you for your email, if you would like to send something we will put it in for you.” i.e. Oh write it yourself, we can’t be bothered. I duly wrote something and sent it in. I don’t think it’s been printed yet but we don’t always get the paper delivered. It’s a bit hit and miss – so it could be in and I’ve just missed it – or there could be too much news concerning rats and pissing toddlers this week to have space for it. I just don’t know.
However, there have been other factors, apart from illness, which have made for a difficult week. This Saturday was the Grand National – arguably the biggest date in the horse-racing calendar and the busiest day of William Hill’s year. I worked a steady 13 ½ hour shift which included a generous 20 minutes for lunch. Lunch was laid on free but consisted of sandwiches which had obviously been made by those girls off The Apprentice who skimped on the fillings to save money and generate more profit. So bread sandwiches, basically. It went okay. I mean it was busy and we had the inevitable technical problems and by 3pm I was having problems speaking coherently, but it went okay. There were two things which actually made it (very surprisingly – because I, along with nearly everybody else who is employed in the gambling industry, apart from those who stand to make a lot of money out of it, was utterly dreading it) a very enjoyable experience. (1) On the way into work I nipped into Sainsbury’s to buy a coffee and saw from the front cover of Q magazine that Green Day are about to release a new album. Hurray! What’s not to be happy about that? (2) I actually met the man from William Hill who facilitated William Hill’s agreement in their matching the money I raise up to a sum of £3k. Because it was such a big day for the call centre, there were lots of the guys in suits around, visiting from London and seeing how we were all getting on I suppose, and he was one of them. I was just so delighted to meet him. He is, genuinely, after the wonderful thing he has arranged for my fundraising, my hero. Nearly as big a hero to me as Tre Cool. Obviously, nobody is going to be able to live up to Mr Cool himself – but he comes pretty close. Meeting him was definitely, the high point of my day – even better than 4.21pm when that race finally went off after two false starts.
So, in answer to the question I asked myself at the beginning of this entry – “Why am I doing all this again?” Well, because people like my hero from William Hill believe in me enough to invest in what I’m doing with real money for the Weston Park Hospital. And, despite the problems, the illnesses, the crap times (yes, this race, despite the fact that it was entirely on the flat, actually took me longer to complete than the Dronfield 10K – a good proportion of which was uphill) and despite the fact that I am still, quite clearly, in spite of all the training I’ve done and time I’ve invested myself into this – still utterly rubbish at running – I am going to do this. Believe in me too – and the best way to manifest your utter belief that I will be suffering through the Sheffield half marathon in three weeks’ time (three weeks!!! Agghghghgh) is to sponsor me at http://www.justgiving.com/valderbyshire All of the funds raised from this insane attempt to have a life beyond the bowel movements of small children will go directly to the Weston Park Hospital Cancer Charity to help sufferers of the disease in our region and fund research into treatments into the disease.
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