Thrilled

Guess what I just caught myself doing. You'll never guess. I was whistling at my desk, proving without question that, for now, the snake has crept away. I can still see its tail-end, but it's definitely retreating, and I am watching it leave, waving it off with a maniacal grin on my mug. And it feels inCREDible, a new lease of life. I went for lovely gastropub chats with Kate and Ses last night and my perspective shifted, and today the sun is out, I ran for nearly five miles with Laura this morning through our beautiful city, over Waterloo Bridge, weaving around Southwark and back over London Bridge, up through Bank and back to the office, exclaiming every now and then at the architecture, stark white stone radiating against deep cyan, and making fun of an unfortunate man's running style. It was elating. And god it's good to be back.

Guess what I found out today? You'll never guess. Laura was telling me that Michelle told her that Lisa told her that a girl came out of our basement gym last week, went into the changing rooms and got into the shower, without her glasses (obv), and TROD IN A POO. Someone had had a poo in our work showers. Amazing.

God I'm excited. I feel like running through the streets singing and high fiving complete strangers. Also I feel like drinking a lot of white wine. Will do the latter but not the former. Woop.

Charming

My mother sent me a very stern email yesterday morning asking me to call her. I thought I was in trouble, but it turns out she was just worried about me after Monday's slightly depressive rant. I reassured her that it was all slightly tongue-in-gill as ever, and that really I am a happy lass. However, yesterday afternoon an event occurred that made me sink slightly below the parapet for real...

Laura and I were out jogging for the first time in ages, and were doing quite well, considering. We were about a minute from the office (and thus the end of our circuit) when we ran past two gentlemen who were, I estimated, in their sixties. 'Keep it up girls,' said one. I turned around to smile in gratitude at the words of encouragement, and as I did, he followed his opener with the immortal triptych: 'You need it.'

So that was nice. At the time I was almost in shock, and, with as much sarcasm as I could muster, said 'Thanks very much,' and ran on. Laura and I breathlessly compared notes on what had happened and she, I'm shocked to announce, used a fairly explicit expletive to describe her feelings about the man's comment. She seemed pretty unflustered and I tried to follow her lead. But even after I'd showered and changed, I still had to admit that he'd bothered me. It's not that I think I look gorgeous while I'm running. It's safe to say that the casting director for the opening credits of Baywatch would not need to trouble himself with my showreel. Thus there is little point denying that our commentator's words were factually accurate - I do need to keep running. And that's fine. However, in the meantime, I would like to kid myself that not everyone I run past is thinking 'Blimey, she'll need to keep that up for a couple of years if she wants to avoid insults.' I have never been heckled before and I didn't enjoy it. And coming as it did on top of a fairly hefty hormonal patch, I lacked the sense of humour to laugh it off altogether.

Last night I went home and watched Giant, which I thought was brilliant, although the highlight was probably my first ever double-sided DVD. What will they think of next?

Highs and lows

Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear. It was all going so well.

Carb-loading works, for a start. I was bouncy and full of energy as I made my way to Finsbury Park yesterday morning - it was really quite amazing to see all the other turquoise T-shirts coming together on the tube as we got closer to the circuit and we were so lucky to have another absolutely stunning day. And after a fair amount of waiting round once I arrived, I have to admit that setting off with over two thousand other smiling runners, raising hundreds of thousands of pounds between us for Cancer Research, music pumping through my headphones, crowds of supporters cheering, the park looking so beautiful, everyone bursting with London pride, well, it was all fairly emotional.

And I made it! 10 kilometers, twice round a challenging course that included three bad hills, but I did it without stopping, in 1 hour 8 minutes, a time with which I'm very pleased as a) when I've run 9k during training, it's taken me around 1 hour 7 mins, so I managed to squeeze in an extra kilometer into the same amount of time, in spite of the untrained-for hills and the heat and b) the damaged ligament in my foot, which I'd hoped would hold off until about half way round the course, started hurting as I approached the 1k marker, which was annoying. But all in all, it was a wonderful, memorable and moving experience, something I never imagined I would enjoy as much as I did - and I wore my medal with pride all the way home.

In preparation for the run, I hadn't had any alcohol on Saturday, something that I found worryingly irritating, so yesterday afternoon, when Sarah and Joanna and I met in Green Park to sit on deckchairs, eat a picnic and celebrate my run's completion, I got stuck in to the dry Reisling with perhaps a little more gusto than I should have. And perhaps I should have gone home at about 6pm when Sarah did, instead of going to a pub in Shepherd's Market with Joanna, where we carried on putting the world to rights with some Chilean Sauvignon, before I realised that I hadn't been given my £20 cashback by the barmaid some time earlier, and went to reclaim it, and was flirtatiously accused of stealing by a pair of lecherous Sloaney married men in their forties, who then joined us for the rest of the evening, plying us with drinks and eventually trying to persuade us to go to Tramp with them, even though we were both barely able to stand with giddy inebriation and also wearing jeans. Fortunately my sanity clicked in at this point and I managed to guide Joanna away from temptation and shortly afterwards, I got on the bendy bus back home where I half lay on the concertina middle section, barely able to see and giggling helplessly to myself at half-remembered nuggets from the evening. Upon arrival at my destination, and keen to favour my bandaged left foot, I stepped boldly from the bus onto my right foot, twisted my ankle, collapsed onto the pavement, losing my shoe in the process, and all I can really remember is several strangers trying to help me stand, and me howling with laughter and saying, 'I can't get up because I am too drunk,' and them all starting to laugh too.

Today I have a bandaged left foot while the ankle on my right foot has swollen to the size of a small apple and is bruising by the minute. I am hobbling as if massively arthritic while still laughing to myself at the random, disreputable hilarity of the whole experience. It was, all in all, a brilliant day. Mum: I'm sorry.

Saturday in the City

It's been the most stunning day here in this most beautiful of cities. I spent a shocking amount of time inside this morning, instead of gambolling around in nearby parks - but I was lying in the sun, basking on my sofa, finally finishing off The Mitfords (excellent), so was certainly appreciating the external gorgeousness while not actually being out in it. Then in the late afternoon I went to meet Sara and we had a delicious walk along the Thames, eating figs, not affording grilled meat products, photographing me and the Houses of Parliament (not together), talking about film and art and boys and other topics of weight. It was lovely. Now we're back at my flat, I've 'carb-loaded' in preparation for my 10k run tomorrow morning, we've watched The X-Factor and Sara is snoring very sweetly on my sofa after her hardcore night out last night, which meant she didn't get to bed until 6.30 this morning.

I'm feeling a bit weird about tomorrow morning. The furthest I've ever run is 9k, and the last time I jogged was on Wednesday and my foot started hurting after about 20 minutes. Today it hurt even when I was only walking. So, the short story is that I clearly shouldn't be running at all. But... I said I'd do it, I want to do it, I doubt I'll do it again... It has to be done.

To alleviate the stress and distract myself today, I made my playlist for the event. It is as follows (to be played on Shuffle):

My My My (Radio Edit) Armand Van Helden
Toxic Britney Spears
Galvanize The Chemical Brothers
Notorious Duran Duran
Feel Good Inc. Gorillaz
Move Your Feet Junior Senior
Everything Is Everything Lauryn Hill
Always On My Mind Pet Shop Boys
Millennium Robbie Williams
Comfortably Numb Scissor Sisters
Freak Like Me Sugababes
Crazy (Single Version) Gnarls Barkley
Hollaback Girl Gwen Stefani
Gold Digger feat. Jamie Foxx Kanye West
Roam The B-52's
Blue Song Mint Royale
Overprotected Britney Spears
Sledgehammer Peter Gabriel
Alphabet Street Prince
Sweet Dreams My LA Ex Rachel Stevens
Acceptable In the 80's Calvin Harris
Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger Daft Punk
Mama's Always On Stage Arrested Development
Thou Shalt Always Kill Dan Le Sac & Scroobius Pip
My Definition of a Boombastic Jazz Style Dream Warriors
World's Greatest Lover Farrell Lennon
Can't Speak French Girls Aloud
Cold As Ice M.O.P.
Everything is Everything Phoenix
A Fifth Of Beethoven Walter Murphy
That's Not My Name The Ting Tings
American Boy (feat. Kanye West) Estelle
Black & Gold Sam Sparro
La Ritournelle Sebastien Tellier

Wish me luck.

Good news!

I am very excited. There has been a new development in my life and I am extremely happy about it.

Possible options:
1. Romance blossoming
2. New career opportunity
3. Painless liposuction offered free of charge by kindly doctor
4. Suddenly-discovered ability to walk in high heels without discomfort
5. Lottery win despite not having purchased ticket
6. Book deal despite not having sent manuscript to anyone
7. Unexpectedly asked to play leading role in excellent new film
8. Unexpected and vast inheritance from recently deceased and, until now, unknown relative
9. Unexpected invitation to holiday in Mauritius, all expenses paid

All possibilities, yes. But not realites just yet. Instead, the truth is thus: I have a running injury, and I have never felt more glamorous.

When I was jogging near Charlie's on Saturday morning, the terrain was mostly grassy instead of the concrete or treadmill surface to which I am accustomed. Later in the afternoon, the outside edge of my left foot started aching quite badly. I rested it on Sunday and Monday, and last night, went for my 9km circuit after work, last completed about 10 days earlier. Approximately half way through the course, somewhere near Lambeth Bridge, my foot started to be slightly uncomfortable, but I pushed on and made it back, an entire minute faster than last time. By the time I'd showered, I was hobbling like a seasoned sufferer of rheumatoid arthritis. On arriving home, I was in agony. And this morning, I was forced to wear sensible shoes rather than the glamorous high heels I was planning to don for my evening out tonight.

But: I'm happy as Larry. This is my first ever sporting injury and I am delighted. Of course, last night, when I was hobbling from the gym to the tube, wincing with every step, I just looked like a curvy, red-faced girl who was suffering from bad blisters caused by unsuitable shoes. I was tempted to change back into my damp gym kit to prove that my lameness had been brought on by a vigorous, high-octane exercise regime and not through the lack of support in my cheap Barratts slip-ons, but managed to resist the urge. Today I am still hobbling with pride, fully aware that a Nurofen would hit this discomfort on the head but keen to revel in the pain brought on by my healthy lifestyle. I am exaggerating the limp as far as possible and now look like a cross between post-marathon Paula Radcliffe and Quasimodo, but still sexy in an understated way. Girls, if you didn't envy me already, you should now.

Sigh

It was all going so splendidly.

I had a truly wonderful Saturday and Sunday down by the seaside with Sara and her glorious daughter, Maggie. We played on the beach in Worthing, swam in the sea, took photos, collected shells, giggled, ate lots, watched Tell No One on DVD, went to a market in Brighton, ate more, browsed in vintage clothing emporia, sat on Brighton beach, ate more and drove back to London.

Today I woke up and miraculously stuck to my plan of going for a run. I jogged a new circuit around Kennington Park and its environs, first doing a lap in eight minutes, when I passed a local council worker asleep on a bench next to his cleaning cart, and then accelerating for the second time around, when I passed the same worker now sitting upright, and asked him cheerily, 'Nice kip?' and he smiled and looked uncomprehending and possibly Croatian. This attempt at the circuit took me six minutes and after that I nearly had to lie down among the pitbull terriers. It is clear that I am now fine with jogging, but running comfortably is still an elusive target. But at least I'm trying, innit.

Then I had a brilliant lunch and shopping session with Ses, when she told me I looked better than I'd looked for ages, and we had a fantastic chat, all of which made me feel buoyant - or perhaps it was the rosé. And then I met up with Paul, but we won't talk about that except to say that it was another nice part of the day and certainly not unpleasant. And then I went over to Astrid's for dinner in Notting Hill, braving the not-too-unbearable-at-this-stage carnival revellers on this Bank Holiday Monday. We had a delicious dinner, I gave her fashion advice (solicited), we discussed how men really are from Mars and women really are from Venus and that's not such a bad thing. It was all lovely.

So when I left her peaceful flat and walked downstairs, it was rather an unpleasant shock to reach Notting Hill Gate / Bayswater Road and walk straight into a post-apocalyptic hell. The carnival had spat out the dregs of its followers and the pavement was now littered with discarded meat products; half eaten burgers and hot dogs oozing rejected onions and e-Coli. Above these items swarmed a seemingly eternal flood of drunk, drugged young people, all of whom seemed unable to move forward more than a few centimeters without lurching unexpectedly to one side and blowing on a plastic horn or whistle. It was deafening and I have rarely felt older or less hip. I reassured myself that I have many other wonderful qualities, but then I overtook a group of young black men who said, in unison, and unmistakably about me, 'Woooaaah, look at the size of that ass.'

Now. I'm pretty sure they were not implying that the dimensions of my derrière were awful. In fact, I know for certain that they meant it as some sort of compliment, thanks to a few of the zesty comments that followed their initial remark. But, much as I like some of my curves, I am simply not a woman who appreciates being told, loudly and publicly by imperfect strangers, that my buttocks are objectively larger than average. It may be factually accurate, but I don't enjoy hearing it, just as Daily Mail readers don't enjoy hearing that they are bigoted morons. And having felt fairly attractive and confident, I shrunk to feeling self-conscious and uncomfortable. It was grim and annoying and, although my stockpile of positive things is extremely healthy at the moment, it ate into my bubble. Boys are so annoying. I'm going to the gym tomorrow.

Update

My new hairbrush is a disappointment. I no longer want Darnell to win Big Brother. I haven't seen the fly in my flat for a while and I'm a bit worried about him. The Mitfords has far too many footnotes and I'm finding it really disjointed but fascinating. I ran for an hour yesterday around Wapping and found it almost easy - but none of my clothes are becoming baggy; if this doesn't rectify itself, my motivation will wane. I still haven't forked out for a new pot of Eve Lom. Nessa came over last night for an impromptu catch-up; we ate houmous and pretzels, drank wine and agreed on everything. This morning is gorgeous, the sun is shining and I'm off to the seaside. Could be worse.

Lo siento

Shortly after 7.30am on Monday, I received a panicked call from my father, to alert me to the fact that my recent blog entries had disappeared. Since then, a few other people have commented on the mysteriously vanishing account of the past few days.

Readers, allow me to explain.

The past fortnight has been pretty tricky for me, and although the way I described it on this page was both accurate and valid, I now understand that it was also possibly slightly too open. It's one thing to talk about my skirt getting stuck to the back of my legs when I'm too sweaty after the gym; it's quite another to discuss personal matters that affect a third party. I may be suffering mentally and want to offload for international sympathy and concern, but this time, it wasn't just my own pain that I was sharing with the global Faithful.

Plus, as a concerned friend commented earlier in the week, it was painfully obvious that I was using my blog entries to communicate my feelings to Paul. I was stunned to learn that my cunning plan had been rumbled so easily, but it was hard to disagree that if this is my primary method of communication with someone, there's trouble afoot.

Thus it was that, at 5am last Monday, during a fit of REM pique, I stumbled through to the sitting room, grabbed my laptop and deleted the latest posts, a first for me and an act of dishonesty of which I am not proud. After all, flippant or not, this blog is meant to be an accurate record of my thoughts; I've always banned myself from sub-editing more than one or two hours after the post goes live - deleting it altogether, several days after the event, is an act of Orwellian proportions, deliberately reshaping history for future readers.

But hey, that's what I did. So suck it up.

Thus, if you're only here for a Paul update, I'm afraid I must disappoint you - not to protect his feelings, but because I have, quite simply, no clue what's going on. If I learn any more, you'll be the first to hear. Probably.

In other news, I ran 9.07 kilometers yesterday. It took me 1 hour and 7 minutes, which means that running 10 km in under one hour at the end of September is looking pretty impossible. So I think my new goal is to do it in under 1 hour 10 mins. That will still involve a pretty sizeable increase in my pace. But hey, at least on race day I won't be jogging past the London Aquarium, where some sort of Truman Show director figure seemed to have plucked the city's most irritating, misguided, wafty tourists and commanded them to meander in the most haphazard fashion in my vicinity, all with gargantuan pushchairs and tearaway offspring who cannoned back and forth between their family members at unpredictable speeds designed solely to make it impossible to navigate any sort of smooth path between them all. I took to clapping loudly in front of me as I ran along, barking 'Watch where you're going!' to anyone who struck me as particularly idiotic.

This morning I had to disembark the Northern Line at Elephant & Castle because I was overcome by nausea. I sat on a seat at the edge of the platform for several minutes, wondering if I should press the button for Assistance and ask for some water, but then the wave passed and I was able to continue my journey. So that was a bit weird.

What else can I tell you? I bought a new hairbrush. I'm currently loving green tea. I can't get Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade out of my head. I had a free make-up consultation at the Clarins counter in Boots this evening which was really fun although ultimately expensive. I am loving my subscription to Prospect magazine, although am possibly taking geekdom to new levels by underlining and highlighting vital passages and sticking in Post-It tabs on relevant pages. I'm just about to start reading The Mitfords: Letters Between Six Sisters. The same fly has been buzzing around my flat for what seems like an eternity; I think it nipped in through the front door at the weekend and it's becoming progressively more drowsy as its inevitable doomsday approaches, but is managing to stir me to new heights of irritation nonetheless. I've run out of Eve Lom cleanser and am dreading forking out for another pot, but I've had that one since December last year so really it's not a bad deal. I had dinner with EmRob in Spitalfields which was great but fattening. My eyes are slightly stinging. I want Darnell to win Big Brother. I wish I could get two Burmese kittens. I miss having a Vespa. It's time for bed.