I kicked my speaker

Ouch

Nice to see that London Lite has it's priorities straight.

Apparently a drunk hoff equals 2 kids getting shot

One week to go...

Feeling the burn.

Paper cuts

As a psychology graduate, I naturally have a healthy disregard for horoscopes. However, I do still read them, mainly to see if there’s an implication I might pull in the near future. According to this morning’s Metro, whilst I am going to be on fire tomorrow at Cargo for Im’s birthday party, today I should "stick to doing the filing".

Who am I to argue with a higher celestial being?

The nights are drawing in.....

There’s only one thing more frustrating than getting locked in the park after a run.

Getting locked in the park when you can see your flat on the other side of the gate. And you live on the opposite side to the only available exit.

The Guns of Brixton

Raced home from work last night to squeeze my run in before dark. Got the tube home, then jumped on the bus outside Woolies to save me having to walk, and got stuck at the traffic lights for ages as loads of sirens wailed past. "What a gwan?" I aksed myself (cos I is from Sarf Lahdan, innit?). As we edged across the junction of Acre Lane and Coldharbour Lane, the number of ambulances and paddy wagons suggested the obvious. What does it mean when you are actually hoping there has been a horrific road accident?

Brixton is such that there were literally about a hundred people craning their necks at the junction trying to get a better view of the action. We’re so desensitised now that it’s just another curiosity. I was worried my flatmate, just arrived from Glasgow, would be freaked out by the incident, but even he was just pissed off he had to walk from Battersea because the whole town centre was cordoned off. It’s easy to put it down to turf wars and the like, but I wonder just how cosy people will be in their beds should a white middle class city boy be caught in the crossfire next time. I’m thinking Daily Mail front page.

Still, at least it made the news (at least locally) this time – the only thing I heard about the double shooting outside the Fridge on Sunday was through my friends. For those of you who don’t live here or didn’t read the "news in brief" in the Metro this morning, the incident in question was the shooting of two 17 year old boys in a McDonalds queue as they waited to get their burgers. At half 5 in the afternoon.

Jirting

There were three things that happened to me in the last few days, which I would not have imagined just a few short months ago:

1) Last night I was a bit late to meet everyone before Im’s birthday. As I neared the bus stop the 37 (notoriously unreliable bus) was just pulling away. Ordinarily, this would be an excuse for a swear word and a fag, but on this occasion I decided to run after it…. Must admit I wondered to myself what the hell I was doing, but I kept going. A merciful hold up in traffic later, and I managed to catch the bus up by the next stop! Check me out, I’m like Superman or something.

2) I was running round the park on Tuesday night and looked over my shoulder heading up the hill, noticing a bloke in a yellow t-shirt behind me. "Here we go, another one over-taking me", I thought. He still hadn’t gone past when I checked the second time, or the third. Then it dawned on me. I was someone else’s pacemaker! Someone else actually thought I was running at sufficient speed to gauge his own run against me! Woohoo! I am a runner!

3) I had my first experience of "jirting". I’m not sure if this is a word, but I have derived it from the word "smirting". Smirting is the pastime that takes place outside pubs with smoking bans, first experienced by me in Sweden over the summer, but now prevalent throughout Scotland as well. It is a combination of smoking and flirting whilst you are trapped in the company of someone you ordinarily would need to find an excuse to talk to.

My jirting moment(s) took place with a young lady with dark hair and a very attractive tight top, who was running the opposite way to me round the park. Each time we passed there were smiles and raised eyebrows between us. I must mention, however, that the actual moment of jirt is unfortunately brief, as stopping for a chat is not really an option. However, it does encourage you to do an extra lap of the park just in case you see her again. So in a way having the horn is good for your health.

For the record, she disappeared after lap 3.

Inner ear infection?

I think the wonky floors in my flat are beginning to mess with my head. Am sat at my desk at work and feel like I’m facing down a slope… Very weird. Mind you, this building was obviously built by the same guys as my flat, so it may be real.

Centurion

This is my 100th post on the blog... I was going to try and say something momentous, but words fail me. Thank you all for your support so far, and hope you can all make it on Sunday week to watch me hobble past.

I've been wondering whether to continue posting after the event - I'd like to but unsure of content. There were machinations in the pub last night as to the next 'project' but I am sworn to secrecy. Suffice to say it would enable continued blogging for the next year or so.

In the meantime, the lack of broadband in the flat (never, ever use UK Online as an ISP. I'm not sure whether it's incompetence or the fact they're a bunch of cowboys that makes them so shit, but either way they suck) means I probably won't be able to personally thank everyone who has donated before the big day. I'll give you all your props in the fullness of time though, so keep reading!

Cheers

T.

Training update

My knees hurt. Lots. I think it’s because my legs are so spindly that they can’t support my body weight, despite the fact I only weigh 11 stone.
Was at another office in Chatham for the day yesterday. Felt like I was retracing the steps of a Stuart king as I travelled back to Londinium via Rochester (and Argos Extra) in my Chevrolet. Which sounds like a good car but as Colin pointed out, it’s just a Daewoo with a different badge. In my crumpled suit and sensible hatch back, I looked every inch the travelling salesman. My dad would be proud.
By the time I got home and went to the supermarket (taking advantage of the jalopy to visit Tesco and stock up on athlete’s food such as steak pies and sausages – spent £67! When the apocalypse comes at least I’ll be well fed), I had just enough time to rush out to meet the guys (and ladies) for a drink to celebrate Im’s birthday. 30 years old. Seems like only yesterday we were getting drunk in the Garage for my 21st….
Anyway, crux of the matter, no training yesterday, although did do 8.5 kms on Tuesday and am out again tonight if not trapped in work. One of the disadvantages of being qualified for business cards (woohoo!) is that I now get in after a day off to 20 new emails. It’s just over a week until the race – am starting to wish I’d done more. A bit like my uni finals. And my dissertation. And my A-Levels.

Mo money

Thanks to Lindsey for another whopping 15 quid! Time is drawing short now my friends, with a mere week and a half to go until the big day... I am currently on hold to UK Online trying to transfer my feckin broadband, so I can get all your tributes written before the bloody race!

Who needs pickfords

Thanks guys, you are legends. I don't deserve you

New flat

Same old priorities

Getting old

I remember not so long ago I was working in a contact centre for Lloyds TSB in Glasgow. Every time we had a dress down day, there I was in my Bench combats with my trendy t-shirt and trainers, every inch the wannabe cutting edge urban clubber I believed I was. I remember looking at the late-twentysomethings with a mixture of disdain and pity as they rocked up in their sensible atire.

It's dress down day today at work. As I sit here in my navy jeans and plain hooded top, I can't help but weep silently for my lost youth.

Excuses

sure enough, two weeks to go and Craig has started to bottle it. His latest blog entry implies a potential broken toe...

I have a potentially dislocated knee, but you don't hear me whinging, do you?

I'm not homeless any more!

Woohoo! All references are back and credit checking has gone through unscathed!! I have a new flat! And it's huge and right next to the park - bet you're jealous. Not that I've, you know, seen it yet or anything, but I'm sure it's great!

Am off to pick up my bank draft for £1200 and then go to the pub for a celebratory pint or two.... Now what about that sentence makes me feel slightly uneasy?

I should check before being rude

I stand corrected! Five shiny new sponsors... Thank you Katja, Lorna, Susi, Lisa and "The Germans". I don't know if this last one is my friends Pino and Stella, or the entire German nation. I hope it's the former, as I would have expected a little more from a nation of 80 million people, despite their well-publicised economic problems.

Thank you everyone, you have taken me over the £300 mark now, and I will of course be writing wonderful things about you all (maybe I'll generalise in the case of Germany, I'd be here all day otherwise).

Tx

Run Update. Or "Rundate"

Did 8K last night, from Kev and Craig’s (and Scott’s) to the park, once around it and back again. Am getting worried about my left knee… It’s been getting sore each time I’ve been out recently and I could feel it clicking as I got to the end last night. It’s probably cos I’m wearing the wrong shoes – not for me the "go into a specialist store and buy appropriate footwear". I just went to Lillywhites and bought a pair that looked pretty….

I also decided to step up my fundraising activities by texting everyone in my phone book that I hadn’t already emailed. 30 texts sent, 4 replies. Thanks guys, nice to know everyone’s behind me. Did have a bit of an issue where I texted a girl who I met back in January – wasn’t sure it was her number as I’d cleverly put a question park next to her name, but thought "why not? It’s for charity". After several confused texts back and forth, it transpires it wasn’t her at all, it was her boss. Oops. How I got that number I have no idea.

LLTC

Yup, it's official, ladies love Tattie Chomper.

Got a text from a lady today to say she loves my blog... unfortunately she told me on the condition I didn't mention her name. That now makes 3 self confessed "blog groupies"! All women as well!

Grrr....

I'm in with the in crowd

It’s amazing how my life has changed in the few short months since I became part of "the media". I’ve been invited to a singles party by a columnist from free London paper / waste of trees ‘London Lite’, which promises to be the social event of the season.

Well, I say I’ve been invited – she’s actually just asked her mates to round up any willing volunteers, and one of them, the TV editor from a national Sunday tabloid is a friend of a friend of mine. In saying that, the editor in question has only met me once, and probably doesn’t remember given it was for approximately 5 minutes 3 years ago. And I wasn’t invited by her, I was invited by my friend who got an email looking for desperate single men.

Still, that T4 presenting job / scurrilous story linking me to Lily Allen/Russell Brand/Peaches Geldof is surely only a matter of months away now….

The Sound of the Suburbs

I may be sleeping on an air mattress in someone else’s house at the moment, but there was something wonderful about opening the blinds this morning and looking out over the back garden, and indeed someone else’s back garden beyond it. It may only be a few miles from my old box-room, nestling in the shadow of a four storey block of flats, but it’s a whole other world.
Out I stumbled into the morning sun, and made my way to the bus stop where other bleary eyed residents were congregating, some eating their breakfast, as joggers struggled past. Birds tweeted, cats stretched and fresh air wafted up my nostrils. I’ve always wanted to live in the suburbs, ever since I was a little kid, and remarkably at the grand old age of 28 this is my first experience.

I grew up in the country (well, I say country, it was actually just outside a village best described as "three large housing estates in the middle of nowhere") and was always envious of my mates who all lived in the nice part of town, and their ability to walk home from school and hang out with each other. Their houses always had a particular comforting smell as well – sort of 2 parts fried food, two parts tumble drier and one part bread. Where I lived in a modern split level bungalow, they lived in pretty 1930s houses. I wanted to be like them. I overshot slightly and spent the ten years after I left home in urban flats of varying degrees of scum. But now, thanks to homelessness, here I am.

As we pootled along the road this morning, I gazed dreamily out of the window at the massive houses sliding past, the mummies taking their kids to school, the general genteel normality of it. "I can’t wait to be a grown up", I thought. "Why do I insist on paying a fortune to live in Zone 2 when my friends get a 6 bedroom house out here for less than I pay?"

I’ll tell you why. Left the house at 7.50am. Half an hour later, I was only in Brixton, roughly 5 metres from where I used to live. Had to get off the bus and take the tube, which I hate, or else I would have been about 20 minutes late for work (note – West Dulwich to the Strand – approximately 6 miles. In 90mins. Maths fans will note that equates to an average speed of 4mph). Those 30 minutes were spent listening to some airhead go on to her mate about how some relative was in hospital, and describing everything that was wrong with him in gory detail. Then the girl in front of me started singing along to her ipod. At least I had my copy of the Metro to keep me company. Oh no, wait. You don’t get it out in the sticks (guess the name should have given it away). And last night I ended up paying 12 quid for a mini cab to get us home from the pub, and it still took us longer to get there than if I’d walked to my old flat. At least I made Craig get a KFC.

Bugger this for a laugh, I’m sticking with the grimy, grey, urban squalor until such times as I can afford a car, don’t want to work in the centre of town anymore, and have stopped needing to drink to have a good time.

Commitment

"Tony's moving in for a bit, I'm going to suggest we go running before breakfast" - Craig a few days ago.

Left for work at five to 8 this morning. Where was Craig? Still in his bed. Well, either that or gone to the gym before I even woke up. Which is more likely?

If you were a fly and landed on my tie

This would be your view of villiers st

Latest running related gumph

Given that I am homeless I seized the opportunity yesterday evening to go for a run whilst round picking up my bag from Pino's. Went from his to the park, round it once, back up along my 'new street' (fingers crossed) and then back to his.

Took me 28 minutes, Run London's thingy reckons it was about 5.5kms. So I'm good for less than an hour, although I do worry that there may be toddlers overtaking me by the race course, such is the lack of speed I display. If the course is flat I might be ok, I should really do a reccy before the big day I suppose!

In terms of my potential new abode.... the street seems very nice, and there are decorators in 'our flat'. However, there is also a "Let Agreed" board outside, for a company that is not the one we're with! Am sure it's fine... That's why I'm rocking back and forth gnawing my fist at the moment.

Stella...

….returns from Afghanistan tonight! Woohoo! Pino can stop looking like a puppy dog that’s lost its favourite squeaky toy (no offence Stella) – until the next time she buggers off to a war zone anyway. What is it about these archaeologists that they have to go off to dangerous, mystical locations to work? Obviously they are all going through some kind of mid-life crisis. You should take a leaf out of my book and accept defeat and a steady job for a low wage, with which to pass your time before your inevitable decline into old age, senility and wee-smelling bed sheets. I’ve never been happier.

Cupid sweats

Email from Lizzi re: her meeting Craig in the gym:

"He was going a bit crazy in the gym too. Couldn't believe the stamina of the
boy"

She sounds impressed….

More moolah

Chris is "slowly getting through his to do list" and has sponsored me £10!! Thanks matey! I am now at the princely sum of £270.01, a mere £129.99 short of my target. Surely incentive enough for the lackadaisical amongst you to give me some cash. Less than 3 weeks to go people! Time’s running out! As I’m only too painfully aware…..

Newsflash

I’ve overtaken Craig in the sponsorship stakes! Woot, and indeed, woot.

There's a voice... keeps on calling me

Just a quick post to let you know I’ve not forgotten about you…. I have now officially left the mankiest flat in Brixton (and not a moment too soon – found a maggot on my bedroom ceiling when doing the last of my packing last night), and am doing my littlest hobo impression once again. Kind of ruined the image having to get the tube this morning in my designer suit carrying two massive plastic bags of belongings. I looked like the smartest homeless guy in London.
I’d like to say a massive thank you / danke schon to Lucy, Pino, Lars (Pino’s friend – poor bastard thought he was here on holiday) and Andy, who between them did a fair imitation of a Pickfords van whilst I directed proceedings last night.
I shall try and get all the richly deserved blogs of thanks written for my recent sponsors as soon as possible – Sandra, Lee, Cathy and Im. Kev has very kindly offered me a place to kip, so I’ll try and blag some internet time when he’s not looking at pictures of naked poodles or the like.

"You've got a good style...

......it's just the content that needs some work"

A critique of my blogging prowess from Paul in the pub last night.

As I said to him, if you're loud enough for long enough, the content ceases to matter. I think a career in Northern Irish politics awaits.....

The number 3 bus.

I hate it. It takes 45 minutes to get 5 miles on it from Brixton to Trafalgar Square, it was designed with midgets in mind so my long athletic legs are too lanky to fit behind the seat in front, and to cap it all there seems to be some sort of inane directive from Travel London that all their bus drivers should blast the heating full pelt. Even when it's 28 feckin degrees outside and all the windows are open. Eh?!

I'm gettin the 159 instead.

Alex and Shannon

No, not the newest members of the 'Home and Away' cast, but my niece and nephew. I know everyone says this, but they are definitely the coolest, cutest, funniest, most intelligent kids ever ever ever.

Alex is 3 and a bit going on 50, such is his sage wisdom. He recently told my mum that the kitchen "could do with a lick of paint". The last time they visited me, he came to help me get the beers in and when I asked him what he'd like to drink he said "Fosters". Embarrassed, I said I didn't think they would serve him Fosters. He just replied "but I like Fosters....".

We then sat having our drink and he told me I was winding him up. My sister (bless her) decided to correct him. "Uncle Tony's not winding you up Alex, he's taking the piss". Cue 10 minutes in a very busy bar of a 3 year old screaming "You're taking the piss" at me at the top of his lungs. Nice one mum. I tell you, it was almost as funny as the time we had Christmas dinner at Julie's when he was less than a year old, and he decided to vomit at the table and puke his dinner out through his nose. We couldn't stop laughing, and neither could he. He likes Tonka trucks and Tractor Tom and Thomas the Tank Engine - the only thing wrong with him is his worryingly English-sounding accent. We'll have that sorted out by the time he makes his debut on the wing for Ireland in the 6 nations though.

Alas Shannon, whilst awfully generous, is a little young to have amassed many anecdotes about her, being a mere 10 months old. She does seem to have inherited her brother's taste for the booze, which makes her an Irish colleen through and through. At her christening she was sucking wine glasses like her granny.

Thanks kids, I promise Santa will remember how good you were in sponsoring Uncle Tony.

Julie

My sister.

What to say about her, given that she has given me strict instructions on what not to write and that she has a pretty scary anger on her?

Well, I guess I've known her longer than anyone else, apart from my mum, who is not mentioned to date as she has not yet sponsored me. Honestly, you'd think that would be the banker.

I think Julie "Townsend" (nope, sorry, still doesn't sound right) would agree with me when I say we are as different as chalk and cheese. She is a happily married mum of 2.4 kids (literally - she's pregnant by the way, not the mother of a bizarre 40%-sized child), lives on a farm in the Cotswolds in a 700 year old listed farmhouse, likes a bit of CSI on the telly, and loves animals, especially those larger than a small tractor. I on the other hand live in the biggest concrete jungle in the country, believe in paying the GDP of a small African country in rent, and have perfected the art of looking extremely uncomfortable when I go to visit her, due to the weird brown squidgy stuff all over the place (I believe it's called "muck") and the strange aroma in the air (quaintly referred to by the locals as "fresh air").

Julie's talent of late seems to be dropping sprogs, of which more in a later post. It is all a far cry from our childhood when we lived in a house which cleverly straddled the two directions our lives would take, being a very urban dwelling in a very rural setting. It's safe to say we weren't exactly Brandon and Brenda from Beverly Hills 90210 - no cosy hugs for us. Instead, we had Julie chucking the remote control at my head, causing it to smash of the wall; me tripping her up in her roller boots at the rugby club and causing her to sprain her wrist, just days before her 11 plus (sorry); ruining her last moments prior to uni with Sorcha our beloved border collie (sorry again); me grassing on her whenever I got the chance (ummm, sorry). In short, I was a little bastard of a wee brother, although in my defence I didn't realise at the time.

Thankfully, with our advancing maturity (mum, stop sniggering), we have learned to get along and celebrate, or at least tolerate our differences. I'll never properly fit in in her world, and she'll never feel comfortable in mine, at least not for any length of time. But I probably feel closer to her these days than ever before, even if we don't speak that often.

I couldn't ask for a better sister, so thank you for being there and thank you for sponsoring me. And thank you for getting found out for being a smoker before me - like everything else in our lives, the fact you got the shit for it first made it much easier for me to follow with barely a comment.

Wee Bruv x

Jennie

Ahhhh, Jennie. Jen. Genevieve. Jenster. The Harv-meister. JennieHarvey.

In France, she would be called "la Renard" and would be hunted for her fur.

Jennie is that rarest of creatures in my life - a fellow norn irish person (umm, mates from back home excepted of course. And my family). For years I revelled in the fact that I was the only individual amongst my group of mates with such a peculiar twang in my diction, before this raven haired Newtonards/Bangor lass appeared.

And I must say, if I have to share my stage with anyone, I can't imagine a better compatriate.

My mum always told me never to trust a lassie from 'the County Down', as they all smelled of wee, were left footed and believed they were actually from the suburbs of Belfast, a city us farmers could only ever visit on a bi-annual basis - once before our summer holiday and once before Christmas, when dad would inevitably get lost in Debenhams and the whole Castle Court shopping experience would be slightly tarnished. Jennie has proven this assertion to be the fabricated, late-night ramblings of my infertile mind that it undoubtedly is.

Jennie started working with my mate Lucy in Glasgow in 2001, and together they built up a 'Cult' following amongst the skaters and goth mongoloids of Royal Exchange Square. She was one of the first to blaze a trail to London town back then, and I only had the privilege of meeting her the one time before she moved. I do remember thinking she was quite purdy though, being blessed with that peculiar 'west coast Irish' look of, well, for want of a better word - Spanishness. I blame the Armada, by which I mean the British that sunk them. Perhaps blame is too strong a word. Maybe "thank" would be more appropriate.

By the time I made it over to England's capital, she had inevitably found a boyfriend, and what a choice young Chris proved to be. I could say nice things about him but he hasn't yet sponsored me, so I won't. It's on his "to do" list apparently though, so you will hear all about him soon. Although I'm not sure what to say about a 'man' that has a "to do" list, other than call him a girl.

Alas, I digress. Jennie is one of the loveliest people in the world ever - a fact confirmed by the Guinness Book of Records. She calls everyone 'pet' and has such classic phrases as "let's see how the mop flops".... It is impossible not to feel happier when she is around as she is just infectious, in the nicest possible way. Never a bad word to say about anybody (unless they deserve it and then it's to their face), always cheery - even when she's not on top form, this woman is a legend and someone I am proud to call both my friend and my countrywoman.

Jennie, you should be Miss Northern Ireland, not that Salmon woman off of Blue Peter. You're gorgeous, you're loyal, you're funny, you're smart, you're well-travelled, you're well-read - if I was a woman I would see you outside for a fight for making the rest of us look bad. Unfortunately as you're so lovely I probably wouldn't have the heart and would offer to buy you a pint instead.

Thank you for your sponsorship and long may we continue being pals, even though you insist on flopping against the mop and continue to live in the cultural backwater of East London.

Tx

Big Love...

...to Cathy and Lee, two members of the Roskilde massive who are the first to respond to my latest emotive plea for money....

Thank you very much! I shall get on to waxing lyrical about your various amazing qualities as soon as possible. I think that my posts are now applicable in both job interviews and court appearances as character references, should that sway any dithering 'don't knows'.

what a difference a few weeks make

Wahey! Check me out! Is that some manly sweat or what?

And I'm smiling!!! Maybe it's because I jogged (please note - jogged, not ran) a mere 10.7kms this evening? Yeah, that could be it....

Yes, I have somehow managed to get round a full 10K without walking once. As I said, I was definitely NOT running London, I was jogging it. Perhaps even mincing a little at times. But I did it in 1 hr 1 min, so I'm guessing I should be ok for the race, ya?

I have to admit that I certainly did not intend to run (sorry, jog) so far tonight. I decided to try for 3 laps of the park before doing another little bit and taking a side exit out into a street we're thinking of moving to (the eagle eyed/London-knowledgeable may have spotted that Brockwell Park does not stretch to Clapham, but that's another story).

Anyway, I get to the gate and it's closed, what with the nights drawing in and all. So round I turned and hot-footed it back to my normal exit. Closed as well. Ran to the car park. Shut. Main gate? Shut. Turned round again, feeling the slightest trickle down the inside of my thigh, hoping it was just sweat. Reached the Lido, where thankfully the gate was still open, and made good my escape before the scary Scottish alkies descended on me like a scene from Shaun of the Dead. All that fannying about added an extra kilometre and a bit onto my run and left my knee feeling like it was going to pop out at any moment. Still, no bad, eh?

Of course I am happiest that I now can get proper sweat marks on my t-shirt like real athletes or the good-looking hero of American teen dramas. Mine was a perfect 'V' down the front when I stopped running but alas had somewhat spread by the time the photie was taken. Ah well, you'll just have to come and cheer me on to see what it looks like normally.

All quiet on the Tattie front

....well, it's not actually but I am aware I have not posted anything much recently, much less got round to my growing list of recent contributors.

Unfortunately things are a bit hectic at the moment, as I'm currently trying to find a new flat, pack up my old one etc before my lease expires on Sunday. Never let it be said I leave things til the last minute.

The upshot is that, abuse of work internet access aside, I might not be able to post much for the next wee while, especially next week when I'm "sofa surfing" (to coin a phrase introduced to me by my mate Brummie Jon about 8 years ago - I always say it in my head in a very strong Black Country accent). I can only apologise to Jennie, Julie, the kids, Fliss and Sandra - I'll get the site updated asap, hopefully before I move out.

And oh yeah, I'm still as committed to training as ever - make of that what you will.....

Another 20 quid!

Wahey!!! Sanj has sponsored me!!!!! Woohoo!

You people, my social life is going to be severely limited over the next week as I write FIVE entries! Am so glad I have to though - thanks Sandra! Obviously there are certain incidents I won't be mentioning - Coco, you know what I mean.

Bloody Hell

So, I decided to slow down a little today to see what happened. I still can't quite believe it and now don't think RunLondon's routefinder thing is accurate.

I ran for 40 minutes, a new record, which was twice round the park and then another third or so of it, before coming out in Herne Hill and jogging back to the flat along Dulwich Road. I felt ok enough to keep going for a while longer but either my warm up or my muscles in general weren't up to the job and started to twinge (they now hurt like a bee-atch).

And the apparent distance of this little jaunt?

8.25 kms.

Little effin shits*

NB: Mum, before you get worried, I am the only protagonist in this tale over the age of about 13.....

OK. It's Tuesday. Work went well today, haven't been on a run in a while, day two of 'back on the patches' so my lungs are clearer than any time since....last Friday, 4.5 weeks to go til the big day - time to pound some asphalt.

I start off at a fairly decent pace (of which more later), and effortlessly glide up the street and into the park. Pootle round the first 2K with barely a sweat (for me). Hit the big hill at the back of the park, maintain a steady rhythm up it and am generally confident I'll be in good shape for the next time round, unlike last Wednesday when I almost vomited (but kept running!). I glance up upon rounding the bend at the top of the hill and see three little local gangsta wannabes walking in to the park from Tulse Hill. They're grinning and staring at me.

"Oh great, here we go", I think, continuing to run towards them. By this time I had a fair old face sweat going on due to the hill so they probably thought I was an easy target. Sure enough, as I reach them, the elder one (why is it these trios always have the older one who looks like he may have hit puberty, and two munchkin hencemen who obviously regard him as some sort of demi-god cos he can reach the top shelf of the newsagents?) steps out towards me saying "mister, you got the time?". As I swerve round him he swings a punch in my general direction. Still running, I look round and scream "F*** OFF!!!!" whilst giving him the finger and continue on my merry way.

Halfway down the hill I glanced round to discover the little twats scampering after me, the oldest swinging his belt over his head. I stopped abruptly (funnily enough they did too) and started walking back towards them. I flinched in belt-swingers general direction. Belt-swinger took a few jumps back. "What the f*** are you going to do with that?", I asked him. No reply. Half hearted swing. "Go on then. What are you waiting for? Hit me with it". No response. "Have you little shits not got anything better to do with your time?" Still no reply.

It was at this point I remembered I was in Tulse Hill and decided it was probably best not to try and take things further (and in any case had no idea what to say or do next - am gonna stock up on "your momma's so fat" insults for next time). So I shook my head in that 'disappointed' way that we adults do at the state of today's youth, and off I jogged, to the strains of the youngest one (about 8 years old) shouting "yeah, that's it, run, you homo". Like a stingray barb to the heart that was, I tell you.

Anyway, my enforced stop put me out of my rhythm so I didn't make it the whole way round, not really having the energy to attempt the long hill or further annoyance second time round, so I cut out of the park halfway round my second lap. And therefore have failed to increase my "maximum distance" again.

Was absolutley gutted to get home and discover I had only been out for 25 minutes, including the stop. About the same length of time it's taken you to read this.

On the plus side, the vaguely accurate routefinder on RunLondon's website reckons that is 5.12kms, which means I'm well on course to do the race in under in hour, as long as I increase my stamina. Maybe if I don't run as quick I'll last longer?

In other news, my toe is still black, which is concerning. Any advice other than "can you still feel it?" (yes) and "are you sure it's not gangrene?" (yes. kind of) much appreciated.

Oh, and I saw Sven Goran Eriksson today. He was just kicking about near my work. Or to be more accurate, defying everyone else's advice and playing long balls to a lone front man. (Apologies to all non-football fans and to Lucy, who has already heard that particular gem once today).

Tatt.

*as opposed to "little elfin shits", which would have been well weird

Thanks x4

Just a quick post to say thanks to my latest sponsors - a sudden glut has left me with four more glowing tributes to write!

So: Jennie, Julie, Alex & Shannon (cheapskate toddlers gave me a joint sponsorship) and Fliss, keep an eye on the blog and feel your cheeks go rosy and your head start to swell over the next few days....

My local shop has had its sign re-done

For all your "Elecletronic" needs.

Bless em.

Aaaarrrrgghhh!

Skank skank skank

Not content with having a mouse infestation, we now have maggots/unidentified larvae wriggling all over our kitchen ceiling.

Minging!!!!!!!!!! Can't wait to get out of this house.

Billie Jean King

....looks like a pure freak.