tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5302785256410920912024-03-12T20:59:31.293-07:00On the rock(s)Lost along the wayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11437348721840642771noreply@blogger.comBlogger38125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-530278525641092091.post-41676271006436603262017-12-06T05:53:00.001-08:002017-12-06T05:53:14.647-08:00Like a grey marl ninja...I imagine to the tune of "Like a rhinestone cowboy" wrapping up the baby in a long, grey, stretchy sling, like a grey marl ninja, creeping round the house waiting for the monster to awake. My skills aren't in lyrics. Or singing. So we'll leave that there.<br />
<br />
We got a sling wrap in our baby box (Government issue - cheers wee Nicola!), I had been thinking about getting one anyway, but it seemed to be an item that divided mum's - an often bought and seemingly aspired to use, but either we used it ALL the time and loved it, or we never used it at all, I wish Id never wasted my money on it. And being a super fashionable earth mama thing to do (as if it's this new fangled trend, and hasn't been done for probably thousands of years) you can get really, really expensive ones. And it's amazing how "baby safety" can try and lure you into buying more and more expensive things. So I didn't, but thankfully we got one in the box so I was keen to give it a go. In among the 27 sets of instructions telling us not to put the lid on the box while the baby was inside it...there was a sheet about how to tie it. Thankfully I'd been revising on youtube (same place I learned a wee practice swaddle. Lucky Neville the bear, unloved by his carer [me] as a child, finally feeling loved and secure, was quickly ditched when the real life baby came along. I always wonder if I didn't love him because he was called Neville. No offence other Nevilles...).<br />
<br />
So I'd had a wee practice getting it on, but without an actual baby, and with a big belly in the way, it's a bit hard to imagine how it'll be, or work out whether you've done it right. We got straight to it when she got home, and it was great. She loved being cooried in, she fell asleep pretty quickly in there, and eve if she wasn't asleep she settled and stopped crying.<br />
<br />
If you've never seen one on, you effectively tie the sling in a criss-cross across your body, and it makes a cross on your back, has a couple of loops around your middle and ties at the front back or side. So, minus baby, it looks a bit like a samurai/ninja outfit, with plenty handy loops to hide all your ninja things, samurai sword, jaggy stars, all those kinds of things. And as you sneak around the house ready to bundle your screeching bundle of joy into it to shoosh them should they wake up you do feel a bit like a ninja. This is obviously all in my head. The folks on the youtube videos (mostly ladies) look, when the baby isn't in the wrap, like they're wearing some nice wraparound top in funky material,, floaty but with a little structure, oh you could totally go out in that and look quite fine actually, like I'm just playing with my baby just now, but in an emergence I'll wheech her in here, you won't know what's going on, and we'll be off, safe, secure and happy. In my reality the criss cross settles between the over-large boobies, with a nice tight band below just to underline the emphasis. You know those tops you're meant to avoid if you're large chested, the ones with the designated, demarcated boobie spaces, that your "I won't be pigeon holed" chest ignores with gay abandon, so you end up instead with a nip in the cross hairs? It's like one of those. But worse.<br />
<br />
So I might need to practice my tying technique or remember to readjust when I take her out. Like remembering to pull your top back down/up after feeding, a not so subtle treat for any visitors.Lost along the wayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11437348721840642771noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-530278525641092091.post-39588272695659090972017-12-06T05:26:00.001-08:002017-12-06T05:26:16.878-08:00Sir Patrick Moore had the right ideaI suppose you don't get to be a Sir having the wrong idea, I was going to write, but that's probably entirely untrue, and having read Sir Patrick Moore's Wikipedia page (who says that's not a proper scientific reference...?) I'm pretty sure he might have had the wrong idea about a few things.<br />
<br />
But, but, but...as, on a cold, stormy morning I pull the full brief up, up, up to my actual waist, and follow them up with the no longer necessary, and now decidedly baggy, maternity leggings, leaving merely an inch between bra and breeks, I think people may have mocked, I might even have been one of the mockers, it is the main thing I remember about Sir Patrick Moore (I even forgot he had a monocle for goodness sake) but the up-to-the-oxter-breeks - they were a good move. I can imagine he lapped up the mocking, basking in the joy of a comfortable cosy belly, resplendent in acres of material, and a foot long fly zip (probably - I've not looked that far into the situation).<br />
<br />
I did not realise the treat I was in for in my first foray into the world of maternity jeans and leggings, and now as I have to concede they are a bit big, and ridiculous looking without the belly, I am sadly packing them away. There is a lot to be said for the maternity jean - knowing you'll never be flashing your pants, and the comfort of a cosy jersey belly hug all day.<br />
<br />
I might have to start wearing vests. Would tucked into pants be too far? Take away from my sultry domestic Goddess seductiveness much...?Lost along the wayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11437348721840642771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-530278525641092091.post-52694288873953401622017-11-29T04:48:00.002-08:002017-11-29T04:48:36.455-08:00The Post-baby showerNot a baby shower in the all-American sense, I managed to bypass that, I've never been to one, and I'm not really sure I get them...if I'm buying something for a baby I think I'd at least like to meet it. Not necessarily hold it, though that might have changed since having my own one, up until about 3 days after she was born I was still quite scared of babies, so maybe I will be a baby holder now, having been a conscientious objector previously. I'll happily look at your baby and buy it (I now realise) quite impractical presents, but I'd rather not touch it if it's all the same to you - they can smell my distress and anxiety and it'll almost certainly cry which'll be unpleasant for everyone. So baby showers - I'm not sure heavily pregnant women are that exciting, but I suppose it is maybe meant to be a special treat for the and a penance for their nearest and dearest.<br />
<br />
I'm talking about the actual shower. After the lovely induction experience I could not wait to have a shower, I really felt pretty disgusting. I managed to block the mingingness from my mind as I lay in theatre fully aware of the young Irish anaesthetist running ice cubes up and down my large pregnant, unshaven, not washed for quite a few hours, apparently rapidly overheating, but now numbing body, while my husband sat beside me, and I pretended not to be able to see myself reflected in the theatre light. I'm very, very hot right now, I told myself. Everyone keeps telling me so, I'm really hot, a really, really, medically diagnosed, hot naked lady, what's not to feel good about there?<br />
<br />
We'd done that bit, baby was here, we had some nice recovery room cuddles, I finally persuaded the midwife to take the catheter out, please, please, I can move my legs look, please let me pee...my persuasion hadn't worked quite so well trying to dissuade them from putting it in. Challenging a mildly competitive, in labour, person to pee with the threat of a catheter if they can't apparently just results in the same couple of litres of rapidly downed water coming right back up in a sick bowl. Apparently fluid going i and coming back out again doesn't cut it, it really has to come out in the horrible little pee catcher cardboard seat thing. Such a relaxing pee experience, I'm not sure why I struggled.<br />
<br />
So, catheterless I begged to go for a shower. You'll have to take someone with you. Ok, we've done the other man running ice cubes over the naked body together, why not let you observe the horror of the post-birth shower. But...uhh...what do we do with the baby? We can't leave her alone can we...? The auxiliaries were indulgent of our new parent fears and promised to keep an eye on hour totally out for the count newborn. <br />
<br />
To his credit D did a splendid job handing me things and making sure I didn't die or keel over in the shower, he managed to boak or look disgusted, it wasn't exactly the couples showering experience Hollywood has us believe awaits us if we're in a relationship, but we've run into that lie before, as, having recently moved into our first home, which came with a bath (I'm not a big fan of baths, it's altogether a bit of a too hot and sweaty experience, but you know...the novelty) I went for a bath.<br />
<br />
My real plan was to dye my hair, and do some mild deforestation while the dye took, then a rinse and then maybe a soak. So all in all quite a lengthy and laborious undertaking. So, 20 minutes in, D, I imagine expecting something like the Galaxy adverts, a sexy lady (not sure who he thought he was living with) can-can-ing her smooth hairless leg out of the mountain of bubbles, with a perfect messy bun, those wee bits escaped around her face to save her hair getting wet, maybe reading a book and sipping on some champagne, candles lit in an all round luxurious, spa-like situation, tried to open the door.<br />
<br />
On the other side, he wasn't to know, was not a Galaxy advert. Instead a post-Psycho like shower scene awaited him. Red brown dye had run on to my face and shoulders from my hair, piled on my head in a cone like a soggy troll, as I stood trying to shave my legs before the dye proving time was up, trying not to touch anything else with my dyed head, with an impromptu green facemask, now nicely cracking, on (why waste 20 minutes of waiting around in the bathroom time?). So I slammed the door in his face. He tried to persuade me to let him in, obviously thinking I was being coy, not realising I was protecting him from facing the semi-decapitated looking soggy troll with half shaved legs and an untouched bikini area. He left. I'm not sure the spontaneous sexy bath scene can be a real thing. We'll not even get started on the fact we can't both fit in a normal sized bath and get in and out without some contorsion and quite a high risk of injury. That is for another day.<br />
<br />
So the post-baby shower made me feel better, but wasn't a particularly pleasant experience. The newly emerging nose of suspicion (which, by the way, has a new challenge to contend with since little britches has started puking a bit) could settle to sniff another day as I knew, objectively, that I was clean, and anything I smelled of must have been an inevitable side effect of being attached to a little limpet that's just emerged from your insides. Lost along the wayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11437348721840642771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-530278525641092091.post-3036860186035336152017-11-28T04:56:00.001-08:002017-11-28T04:56:09.618-08:00The Nose of Suspicion and Deja Poo3 poopy nappies into the day and my nostrils of suspicion are working overtime. Especially on a toddlers day - who wants to be the one with the stinky kid? I don't remember being scarred by stinking as a child but maybe I was. Breastfed poops aren't even that bad but I do find myself still trying to sniff them out. I wasn't especially afflicted with cravings or aversions in pregnancy, but seem to have developed the super sensitive nose since the munchkin arrived. I spent the first few weeks trying to work out if my section scar smelled, and unless you're some kind of yogi I'm not sure smelling your own belly is possible, then last week it was the boobs, and I have a regular fear about the house and go around sniffing like a bloodhound, and my nose is telling me fatherhood has made el papa smell worse. But I think it is just the super nose. Which by the way is a crap superpower, unless I could get employment as a sniffer human, I'm not sure I'd outperform the canine candidates though.<br />
<br />
And then, 3 poops in, or a thousand poops inn, if we're going from the beginning of mum time, they stop standing out. Like in the beginning there were the horrifyingly fascinating ones the black green gunky lava, the sticky ones, the day they turned yellowy, the seedy ones, we've checked them all off from the "how often should my baby poop?" google image list, and while everyone else seems to be worrying about not enough poop ours is coming thick and fast. That worry when you catch a live action one, and thank God that you got laminate floor in the bedroom instead of carpet, the assault missile fart-poop that's like an angry little baby warning to hurry the f**k up or the literal shitis going to hit, well, everything.<br />
<br />
I was pretty impressed the day I was changing her and the fart poop travelled as far as my knee, a good 12", and have nearly ducked for cover at the first sign of a sneeze or a fart when the nappy is off ever since (the mum sense of needing to hold on to the baby on the high changing mat only just overrides the reflex to get out of the way of proot propelled poop). Then one day as I side stepped a particularly angry, mid change tantrummy fart, out flew the poops and travelled well over a metre - to be fair with the benefit of being at about waist height on the changing mat, with a decent trajectory and maybe a little extra firepower with me holding her legs up, but holy crap, is that kind of fire power normal?!<br />
<br />
And as they all kind of mingle into one big endless poopy bum change I start to be struck by deja poo...the assault missile situation described above has taught me to wait - poops don't often come in a singular event, there might be two or three in quick succession, so we sit it out for a moment. But then sometimes in the midst of something else I fear I've been distracted. I remember a poo...did I deal with that poop? When was it even? Minutes ago? Hours ago? Is the one I'm remembering actually one that happened yesterday...are we in an ongoing poop situation? I think it's maybe the baby-brain dementia, the sad side-effect of the fun bits of getting to stay at home. When your life is reduced to a series of poops interspersed with a bit of smiling, chatting, cooing and singing made up nursery rhymes (to get the rhyme and rhythm they inevitably go a bit off course, a bit of rudeness peppered with swears and gore, that doesn't have to stop till she's speaking right?) it becomes hard to tell them apart, in the monotony of the baby poo world deja poo has me nearly constantly on edge.Lost along the wayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11437348721840642771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-530278525641092091.post-603280228740398632017-11-24T07:34:00.000-08:002017-11-24T07:34:02.838-08:00My new life, leak proofing myselfShe was waking up, but it seems to have just been a sleep-roar, so I might aswell crack on while I'm on a roll.<br />
<br />
Now this is really an early weeks one, thankfully not so applicable now. Also thankfully, for me, the hideousness of NHS issue maternity pads did not last long, and I graduated out of those nappy-like ensembles pretty quickly. They were almost more traumatic than anything else in the having a kid process.<br />
<br />
Now, I am not one to let things go to waste, I'm a bit of a hoarder, I don't really like throwing things out and I love a bargain, so when I asked my gallant knight in shining armour to get rid of the government issue maternity pads I got in my baby box, he was immediately suspicious. Obviously once he had dealt with the hilarity of being involved in some way with "fanny pads", I mean at only 37 years old who can blame him, what's not hilarious about all feminine hygiene products? So after putting the whole pack between his legs in a not too far from the truth impression of me in the hospital, "Is it not a bit of a waste? Can't you like...use them for something else..?" he says.<br />
<br />
Something else? Like what? Dressing gunshot wounds, stemming the blood flow after a mortar attack in a makeshift field hospital? Beyond that I'm not sure I can put them to use (I'm sure my mother will come up with a million handy uses, and give me trouble for chucking them...watch this space).<br />
<br />
But I did have to replace them, because it turns out when you have a baby you can't just have a shower and get dressed like anyone else. Having washed like a relatively normal person (provided someone else is on hand to see to the miniature person, otherwise you have to wash like you are in some kind of frenzied supermarket sweep style bathroom competition - go high value first, prioritise! Body wash! Shampoo! You can take or leave conditioner, come on, the baby might cry, you can wash your face anytime damnit, and who needs to be fully dry, hurry!) so having washed, and dried, at a relatively luxurious mildly hurried pace, only to find out you are still dripping, thanks boobies, you have to get entirely leakproofed and dressed before you can do anything. And inevitably the first thing you will do is get the boobies out again. The never ending cycle continues.<br />
<br />
Thankfully it is far, far from that bad now, I can almost laugh at the misery, looking back. And that's after a c-section, I'm sure it could have been a whole lot worse. Still spring the occassional leak in the bra dept, but thankfully I've usually got that covered.<br />
<br />
<br />Lost along the wayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11437348721840642771noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-530278525641092091.post-32666998418937235552017-11-24T06:58:00.001-08:002017-11-24T06:58:04.019-08:00Telling the nips to relax because you're so used to narrating your entire lifeLooking over my list of possible topics stored in notes on my phone I'm afraid throws up some impenetrable rambling titles that I'm sure made sense at the time. They might have to be ditched..."Google poops sleep holding your breath" ? "The starving night and pee covered day" ?<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Inadvertently telling the nips to relax out loud hasn't, unfortunately, been an isolated incident. Having negotiated the indecent nip-nops of pregnancy, carrying my basket through the meat and cheese aisles of Tesco like a cartoon old lady, clutched high under my chin to hide the offending articles, I thought I had whatever the boobies could throw at me covered. I could not have been more wrong. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I really wanted to breastfeed, for all the well documented reasons of goodness, but also for the convenience, surely whipping a boobie out is easier than sterilising, mixing, reheating and all that palaver. So I was glad when the munchkin took to it like some kind of champion speed eater - she was a total pro, which made me look pretty good, even when I didn't have much clue. All well and good for the first couple of days, as Google joyfully told me the breasts may swell to 3 times the size, I smugly thought to myself, not I, with my professional eater of a child, she is super-efficient, my boobies, purely a fashion accessory for so long, have stepped up to the plate and it turns out they were (literally, apparently...) made for this. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And then day 4. We got home, and my God they hurt. They appeared to have corners. Rounded corners, but corners none the less. Bring in the super-efficient hungry monkey and drain those bad boys. So that took a while to settle down. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And then there's the nips, and the bras, which are now so large they have to be segregated from the equally ginormous post-section pants, two who readily shared a drawer before, now have to be separated, a neither shall thrive while the other survives type scenario. I did some "nice" feeding bras shopping to make myself feel better one day, I felt marginally better until they arrived. You peruse the online stores, where ladies seductively unclip their cups, or lift the wee flap of their discreet peephole top, like some kind of socially accessible flasher, gazing with come-to-boob eyes at the camera. So I negotiated the various options, trying not to look the models in the eye, and picked one with some kind of lacy ensemble, you know, to make the three sizes too big, occasionally angular udders look more enticing, but, as is the case with nearly all bras, they are made for the smaller chested among us. Unless I thrust my chest aggressively forward, which to be honest, in the current circumstances, could be interpreted as threatening behaviour, or maybe even attempted assault, then the lace sits alone, peeking out of my top, then a wee bit of a gap till the easy access cup. Not appealing, but practical. Which could maybe be my new tagline.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We've been doing fairly well really, she eats like a trooper, it's generally felt ok, until this last week when I think she's gnawed one nip-nop which is now in a state of near constant vigilance, its pal over in the other cup seems to be acting out in sympathy, and there isn't just the fear of offending someone, like the pregnancy Tesco days, because I'm not sure I care if anyone's offended by them, but they are like adamantly resistant to being contained, and super sensitive, which is not a helpful superpower. Like cat whiskers on your boobs or something, by the time they tell me I've walked into something I'll already have a broken nose (I have a proportionally massive head to match). So I'm slathering on the lanolin, I'm not exactly sure how it's meant to work, but I'm trusting in the advice of the internet at large. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So I've been knocked a little off my super-booby-lady pedestal, but I think I have the situation under control. Mean time I'm going to get expressing, which is a bizarre new skill to have learned. I couldn't quite bring myself to try milking by hand, that just felt a bit too close to being a fairytale friesian. I'm still not 100% comfortable with the idea of milking myself by any means, but the hand pump does the trick, and may give the one nip currently on the injury list a wee bit of time to get match fit, without losing her edge.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
That's a thing about motherhood - they do say you lower your boundaries of socially acceptable conversation to include poops and boobs. So here we are, and the beast awakes, so I'm off.</div>
Lost along the wayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11437348721840642771noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-530278525641092091.post-65823378355602649582017-11-24T06:17:00.001-08:002017-11-24T06:17:51.301-08:002 and a half years later she woke up, married, with a baby. That was a surprise.9 weeks in to motherhood I'm not sure if it still counts as new, but I definitely wouldn't enter myself into any pro-mum/mum of the year competitions just yet. I can do many more things with one hand than ever before, I can use a spoon with my left hand with minimal spillage. I don't care much about said spillage. I have harnessed the power of boobies, a magical,baby calming super power (haven't tested it on any other babies, and have no intention to. I'm a very limited scope superhero.). I can change a nappy, I've negotiated poop explosions without contaminating anything beyond the immediate vicinity of the nappy,not dropping the baby in the process. I'm a semi-accomplished milkmaid. I've learned to appreciate food at any temperature, and no longer eat at the speed of a ravenous savage. I can hold in a pee for way longer than is probably healthy. I've mastered an almost inescapable swaddle. I can (sometimes) make my baby smile, proper big smiles-with-the-eyes,dimples-in-the-chubby-cheeks smiles (it is still quite confidence crushing when she looks unconvinced at my efforts...). There are lots of things I can't do...but we don't want to dwell too much on those...my changing bag packing isn't just brilliant, public singing still petrifies me, even when chiming in with toddlers, I find trying to match outfits unusually stressful, my patience muscle is still strengthening, I can't imagine ever being able to have any kind of routine given I failed at it as an adult. I have a tendency towards being a semi-hermit. I'm sure I can work on those and the many other inevitable failings.<br />
<br />
So now we have a two day trend of long lunchtime naps in the sling I thought I could revisit the blog. I have been storing up ideas as we've gone along learning the art of keeping a tiny human alive, most of it is probably fairly obvious to any even semi-accomplished parent...but I had to learn them in real life. Funny how they imagine you'll know how to be a parent because you don't have any particularly significant social problems, up until 9 weeks ago I had no idea. Now I suppose I have mastered some of the practicalities.<br />
<br />
And as I master them I feel more and more grateful for being able to stay at home for a good while, I gain more and more respect for those who stay at home longer term (it is really pretty f**king hard being in constant demand), appreciate more and more having an involved el papa for the little person so I can have a little bit of time in less demand, and feel more and more sorry that he misses out on the daytime bits, that he doesn't get the chance to get to know her as well as I do, that he probably thinks I'm better at it than he is when really I'm just getting to practice all day every day. And I have the boobies - the ultimate trump card (I think we need a new word for that, I don't really want to think of my boobies in trump terms...).Lost along the wayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11437348721840642771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-530278525641092091.post-45822346966797477062015-06-23T05:17:00.000-07:002015-06-23T05:17:06.215-07:00Race day...Well this has been 3 weeks in the writing - turns out when I don't have training to avoid it's not so easy to ramble on here.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I survived, I am most definitely still alive. I haven't run since I got back. I'm still amazed by how generous everyone has been. I have learned a few things, about geography - mostly how far 13 miles is - about running - hard, but enjoyable - about myself, well, no, I think I knew most of those things already, and about Edinburgh - mostly how pretty it can be.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So my trip to Edinburgh began with locating and "rescuing" my wayward brother. Not wayward in a criminal sense...a good story, for another day. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My race day began at 5.30am, which, in case you haven't tried it, is not a reasonable time to be up in the morning. Not being a morning person, 5.30am starts do not appeal. I'm not particularly a night time person either, so legitimately being able to go to bed at 9pm without an extensive battery of excuses lessened the blow a little. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Except obviously I couldn't sleep. I can sleep almost anywhere, at any time. I love a nap. I really believe in the curative power of sleeping. When I got stuck in my higher maths revision, the night before the exam, I went to bed. When I woke up the next morning I could do whatever really hard maths-with-letters mumbo-jumbo I couldn't fathom the night before. Sleep is magical. So long as you can get there.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So I slept on and off, I had all my kit piled up, got up and dressed, plastered my feet, vaselined my bingo wings (what a beautiful picture to paint), ate my porridge, packed my Soreen, located all necessary items, packed my emergency binliner jacket and headed off to the shuttle bus, where assorted other lycra'd lovelies were gathering. These included some full make up girls, and one girl with a fashion fringe, the kind of side sweep thing that isn't a real fringe, just hair pinned across. It is quite a feat of construction and, I imagine, not best suited to a sweaty run fest due to take place under a weather warning of wind and rain. Then I realised how old before my time I am, and tried to stop thinking about her inappropriate hair (that was an awful lot prettier than mine).</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I found the starting pens, accidentally made friends with an American marathoner-in-training and a maths teacher and began to think about toilets. I'd studied the route map, I knew where to find them, I thought I should just get one last pee out of the way before the start. Lots of other people were thinking the same, so I queued. As I got the front a full make up, pretty hair girl, burst out of one of the 3 portaloos not 10 seconds after she'd gone in.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I'm sorry, but I can't! I can't do it. It's making me boak! You might be able to, but I certainly can't..."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Was this a challenge? I had a moment of panic - if I go does it make me some kind of stink monster, like she is obviously disgusting if she likes going in stinky toilets, or I walk out and they'd all point and laugh at the girl who used the stinky mink loo, if I don't I'm essentially depriving the whole queue of a loo...and how bad can it be? And how much do I really care? (Not much, it turns out)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And then my training kicked in - I hadn't been running up and down that Toab Road breathing in slurry and poo particles for nothing - this was my moment, I was totally going to nail the portapotty. (as long as there's no actual poo on the floor or seat, was my one clause). I held my breath and emerged triumphant. The girl was still waiting and looked on in admiration. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
All this excitement to distract me from the actual race. The run was busy, I was in my pen, in my binbag chic, we headed off and I had my first pang of guilt as I threw the binbag away, even sanctioned littering tugs my Catholic-guilt-moral-strings, so throwing away bottles at every water stop really pained me. I hadn't warmed up, I thought 13 miles was more than enough, and I wasn't going to be spanging about anyway, so I started slow, and got a little bit annoyed by having so many people around, but we got going and it thinned out.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The weather warning weather never came to anything (forecast of storms gusting at 40mph weren't really tickling my weathervane anyway - that's surely just a summer's day?), I missed the 2 mile marker so was pleasantly surprised to find myself 3 miles in and feeling fresh. We wound our way through some park, and along streets where people shouted, some other Lucy had a support crew with banners, so I lapped up some of their love (they looked like they had plenty to go round). I did a lot of overtaking/undertaking/dropping back and fore and didn't ever quite join up with anyone the same pace, I'm not sure I was trying to...but I think I will next time so I can be more settled. As we wound through the park I was overtaken by a lanky middle-aged couple, who sounded a little bit like they were going to take over the world (they were German I think, the accent really helps, so read it out loud), as they sped past:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Zees condeeshons, zay are optimal, no?"</div>
<div>
"Ja...Ja, vee could not 'ave planned eet better..."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So that brightened my day for a while.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There were more Lucy banners later as we went through Portobello (?) then onward to Mussleburgh where the actual Lucy support team were waiting. I did have a toilet pit stop which I regretted almost immediately as I seemed to adopt a queue friend who talked incessantly at me (I'm getting the sense I'm not a sociable runner) and it was a long queue, so nearly 10 minutes of talking, and it's such an exciting, joyous, charitable occassion it is just not socially acceptable to be mean to fellow runners, so I pee'd fast and got on my way before she could find me for the remaining 6 miles.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I found my Lucy support team lounging on a tree, and as I went for my jelly babies and water a chirpy man sneaked up behind me, "Ahh! Sweeties!" and helped himself to my jelly babies...which was fine, there were spare, but unexpected...I took a couple of handfuls and got on my way. A mile or so later a lovely lady offered me more, and in trying to show her I already had some I realised that sweaty paws and jelly babies do not necessarily mix well. I scraped off the goo, ate a bit, and perked up a bit. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The final stretch has a double back section, so as you run out maybe mile 9-11, you pass everyone coming back along towards the finish line. Which is maybe meant to be rousing and give you hope. Mostly it made me hate them, all these happy people with only half a mile to go...but eventually I made the turn around and I was those happy people (happy ish, I was still doing some walk/run/walk interpretation of running), until I saw the elite marathoners (closely pursued by a man in a full Batman costume) speeding by, and realised what I was doing was most definitely not running in the sense that they run. But it was too close to the end to stop so I powered on. And I made it.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
To be honest I found it pretty hard, in a funny way...for future reference running 6 miles twice is not the same as running 12 miles, whatever the maths tells you. It's a strange kind of tired, not puffed out particularly, but heavy legged. I didn't like not having a sense of where I was and what was to come. I think I'd like to do the same race again, and maybe have a few months of just running for fun before I get into actual training, I found that I really started to enjoy the last few weeks of training (says she who hasn't run since finishing) - I'd like to get to that stage again. That is the plan for the next year.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Next time - I will practice running with people, I might even find myself a race buddy (said wayward brother shook on a bet for next year, though it was in the aftermath of his adventure/mishap so I'm not sure he was in a fit state to consent to anything), I think I'll run the full distance, maybe with a bit extra, between now and then and I'll find something to wear with jelly baby pockets.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I think I'll get some more accurate kind of running measurer thing - mine told me I'd only run 11 miles, so I think something went a bit wrong somewhere.Maybe a Tomtom or Garmin one, not too expensive, not too fancy...any advice welcome, no urgency, I'm not going anywhere anytime soon.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I have signed up for the <a href="http://www.mindyourhead.org.uk/fun-run" target="_blank">Mind Your Head</a> fun run in August, to get me back out and at it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I don't quite have a fundraising total yet - still to count up my cash contributions, but safe to say it is a heck of a more than I was expecting, so thank you to everyone who donated, or who had a look at any of the Mental Health websites, or who looked out for themselves or someone else a little bit more over the last few months. Every little helps so they say!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'll be back with more non-run funs soon.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Lost along the wayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11437348721840642771noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-530278525641092091.post-47905479372018406962015-05-30T03:02:00.002-07:002015-05-30T03:02:28.268-07:00Anxious legs, nighttime zoo, final prep...Tomorrow it'll all be over. A bit more than 24 hours from now, unless I finish it in an ambulance having collapsed along the way. Sitting on the back-steps in the sunshine in Edinburgh, with a cup of normal(ish) tea. Finding a normal cup of tea in my sister's house is like sourcing a plain black vest-top in a vintage clothes boutique. I know what I want, I know exactly what it'll go with, it will make me happy and comfortable. No I don't want a shift dress with a mesmerising magic eye pattern, or a real crocodile handbag, or a tie-dyed halter neck, or a bandage wrap top, or any of these other things instead. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I just want a cup of tea dammit. I'm not averse to fancy tea now and again, but not for breakfast. You can keep your fancy schmancy coloured boxes, and flavours and smells. There are too many variables already in this run, so many things could go wrong...I've already cut my finger this morning without even realising, I don't need any more negativity...now give me a cup of tea.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What are these tea bags in the suspicious unmarked tub?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Rwandan.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Rwandan?! I'm not a tea racist. I don't need to know it's ethnic origin...I just need to know if it's normal. (In so much as any of us are normal...I know. But you know what I mean...)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Rwandan it is then. It tastes mostly normal.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I think I might be a bit highly strung.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I did my last run yesterday morning, along a part of the route - out of Musselburgh, towards Prestonpans - and found a little street called Hope Place about mile 9, which, depending on your state of mind, could be a welcome, comforting sign from the world that all will be well, or a snide laugh in your face from the planners as you drag your failing carcass by...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm going to go for welcome and comforting. Which is how I took the aggressive toot from a pimped up Polo yesterday, and the big fake sneeze from the white van men I passed...what a super way to show support. I've been completely amazed, surprised and delighted by everyone's interest, generosity and kindness of thought, advice, support and cash over this last couple of months.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I have been stuck in a bit of a rut this last couple of years, and thought having a goal might be a good way to turbo-power my way out of it. And I thought entering a half marathon might not be enough, but if I was to run for charity...that would utilise my innate (?Catholic) guilt for good and ensure I actually did it. There are loads of great charities around, and you can't support them all, so I picked one for a cause important to me (like a sob story on X-factor, there's nothing like a personal cause to help people part with their cash. I'm sure Patrick would have been royally mortified that people were giving so much in his name, but there we are...). </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The great thing about supporting a Mental Health charity is that the non-money bit of fund-raising, putting the idea out there and getting people talking is as, if not more, important as the money bit - being part of the change in attitude towards mental health, being part of the conversation, being the person who saw this cause, spoke to their friend and realised they had worries in common, or became a support to someone who thought they were alone. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So I am enormously grateful for all the donation, and actually properly astounded, and I hope that a few people have started a difficult conversation, or looked after themselves or others a bit. Take some time to recharge, do things you enjoy, and be kind to yourself. Maybe avoid the company of highly strung, grumpy runners, for the moment, they might only bring you down... </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As far as prep goes I'm off out on a hunt for a pocket, which seems a bit like going to buy a bit of emptiness, but I just need a home for some jelly babies. Either that or they'll be strategically placed with my "crew"...imagining my mother lobbing jelly babies at me from Hope Place is really intensifying the hunt. As I cantered (I may have done a small whinny) past Mussleburgh racecourse I wondered if I should have had someone rub linement into my legs before now, but too late if I should have. I'm startign to worry about changing anything, or going anywhere in case I get too tired. Another pointless trip up the stairs - why did I run? Why can I not just walk like a normal person, or maybe crawl to share the load, I must conserve my energy...as if I'm going to run out of steps mid race (hopefully not). </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Among my ongoing worries - </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I walked too much at nighttime zoo and my legs are tired (I've never been so acutely aware of my legs before), I also went dressed in running clothes and anorak, and the first person I met was a girl reapplying make-up in the toilets. One of us has missed a memo, I thought. The ticket did say not to come in animal costume...but beyond that appropriate attire was open to interpretation. I think the rhino was my favourite. </div>
<div>
I have not tried the pants/leggings combination I've decided on, and I really don't think I can fix that midrace. Mother - meet me at Hope Place with inappropriate pants, 3 jelly babies and an oversized trenchcoat to hide the change.</div>
<div>
My feet are tired. I think. </div>
<div>
I haven't decided what to eat today yet.</div>
<div>
I have to catch a bus at 6am. If it starts with 5 then you should not be awake, in my opinion. a 6am bus is hideous. I'm not even going to be awake until mile 5.</div>
<div>
I'll sleep in. </div>
<div>
I won't be able to sleep.</div>
<div>
I've lost my race number (I've checked a few times a day, it is still there).</div>
<div>
I'll fall over. Or I'll make someone else fall over. In my head I imagine us running along to the Benny Hill tune, so many people, we have to run exactly in step, and then I fall over, or elbow someone and cause a pile up.</div>
<div>
I'll need the toilet when there is not toilet.</div>
<div>
I'll go to the toilet and there'll be no toilet paper. If I bring my own the only place I could keep it is in my sports bra, it'll get sweat soaked and I'll end up with a papier-mache cast of my chest.</div>
<div>
I'll get lost finding the start line.</div>
<div>
I'll accidentally sprint off and not be able to stop myself. Or I'll forget how to run.</div>
<div>
I'll be too cold, or too hot.</div>
<div>
My outfit doesn't match. I know this isn't very important...but I'm still a little bit worried about it.</div>
<div>
There are probably more, but that's keeping me going for the moment.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's meant to rain tomorrow. Which I'd rather, if the choice is that or big heat, but I hope it's not just too soggy.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Some other great places to go for info <a href="http://www.samh.org.uk/" target="_blank">Scottish Association for Mental Health</a>, <a href="http://www.mind.org.uk/" target="_blank">Mind</a>, <a href="http://www.mentalhealth.org.uk/" target="_blank">MHF</a>. Or I had a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XiCrniLQGYc" target="_blank">Black Dog</a> is worth a watch.</div>
Lost along the wayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11437348721840642771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-530278525641092091.post-2578544600008404932015-05-26T14:36:00.002-07:002015-05-26T14:40:47.925-07:00The final countdown...So the countdown is on. 5 days till race day, one work day till holidays, 2 runs till the big run. Too late to make any difference?<br />
<br />
After a low motivation week last week, where I was almost entirely stationary (staying still, not pencils and rubbers...) I'm back on the wagon. Yesterday I did my Sunday big run, it was Monday, I know, but it was a cracking night so I'm glad I waited, it felt mostly fine.<br />
<br />
I ran down my arch enemy (sounds a bit like a superhero criminal confession...). There is one road near me that I hate running up. I don't hate it in itself, it's an ok road, plenty to look at, fairly quiet, peerie coos and lambs to look at, but I really find it difficult to run up. It's not the biggest hill I've run up by any stretch, or the steepest. I think it's because it used to always be the end of my route when I was just starting out, and in my head it's shorter and flatter, and I always used to stop some of the way up. Psycho-barrier...the Toab triangle of doom...so I ran down it instead of up it. Whatever you run down you have to run back up somewhere...but the up at the other end didn't seem so bad, so long, so soul destroying...the Toab road has the added bonus of farm-poo smells. Which all at once makes you run further, but practice slooow, relaxed, shallow breathing. The kind of smell that's almost solid, where you can almost feel the cow-poo particles flying into your mouth...yeeuugh. Great training tool. After running down it yesterday, I ran up it today.<br />
<br />
Psychological barrier, conquered.<br />
<br />
A less than psychological long run barrier I encountered last night, which could prove problematic, is what I'm going to call the bingo-wing burn. Like chub-rub on your arm. Just one arm, bizzarely...so if you happen to look up that half-marathon action pic, which is sure to be a beaut, note the quasimodo, riding tiny invisible horse, whipped in the eye, sweating, maybe drooling mutlicoloured jelly baby blood, with my right arm on fire from a friction burn. Or maybe my arms waving out to the side to avoid said friction burn. Or maybe with protective armbands. Or dripping lubricating grease from my upper arms, a pat of lard under each oxter. I haven't worked out how to solve the bingo-burn yet, and am running out of runs to solve it on...<br />
<br />
I think I really need to work around it, accommodate it, not eliminate it. Maybe you have one big boob, or one big arm, or both...they said. Too late to change that. And the boobs must be contained. The hardware required to contain them is substantial. It cannot be minimalised, for health and safety reasons. The stitching may well be causing the bingo-burn, but the structural support...it'd be like taking the wires off a suspension bridge. Better come up with a plan before Sunday. Maybe a plaster...?<br />
<br />
While I'm getting my excuses in, I'm still deliberating about pants. I'm sure you've all been gripped by the ongoing saga. I've narrowed it down to two. Big and little. I'm veering towards big. Maybe because that's what I know. I wonder if little gets the same kind of brain response as knowing I'm running a really long way. If I know I have a long way to go, I don't get tired early on because I know there are still many miles to plod, I am resigned to the fact, and comfortable with it. Little pants are an automatic wedgie. They're made for it. They're meant to be like that, so it's less distressing. Is it comfortable...or am I just resigned to the fact...I'm not sure yet. I am not contemplating commando...though I've heard it's the done thing in some running circles. I'm fairly sure your first half marathon is not the time to try it out.<br />
<br />
And the new shoes. I love my new shoes. But they don't have a space in the sole for my little pedometer sensor thing, which is a bit annoying, so I got it a little pouch that threads through my laces, but the little pouch is a bit too big. I have an ongoing debate, me, myself and Nike, God of Running Shoes. Nike, I say, I like your sensor, I like what it tells me, but I'm beginnign to think it's holding me back. 20g on the end of my stumpy leg? That must add up to something. How about the extra 20kg of Lucy your lugging around? The extra big boob/arm you're contending with? Even by all the laws of physics, 20g on the end of the shortest legs in the running business does not slow a slow thing down. It's like a sparrow perching on a monster truck.<br />
<br />
Whatever, Nike.<br />
<br />
So if I manage to pick the right pants, find somewhere to store my jelly babies (another disadvantage to small pants...?), solve the bingo-burn problem, get over the gait altering 20g sensor, work out what to do with the whip hair, not over-heat, not carb-load to the point of runner belly (I was so sure carb-loading was going to be my thing, the bit of running I'd excel at, what I lack in running ability I am going to make up for in carb-loading excellence, I thought I was going to nail it. Now I'm worried I'm not even going to be good at that. Imagine failing at eating. Carbs, of all things. I love carbs. Oh the disappointment), I'll be sorted, right? Wrong. I know where I'll fall down. I know why I'm better running on my own, and why the idea of running in a huge ginormous crowd scares me.<br />
<br />
Today, at work, a real life worry came to light. Not mine, a colleague's.<br />
<br />
"I think I might be too ginger for jigsaws."<br />
<br />
I don't know if this thought has ever been thought before, but now it's in my head...I'm starting to worry. Do you like jigsaws, she asked. Yes, well, I like competitive jigsawing. Which we did at Christmas, Dad having got K, F and I similair but different jigsaws, pretty, but maybe they're not really my thing. What if you had a race to finish them, Dad suggested. Oh, they are so my thing now.<br />
<br />
I love a bit of pointless competition. I do like to win, but I'm happy with trying hard, the less important the better. I'm not too fussed on exams, or work competition, I don't want to be smarter, or the fastest over 100m, but an obstacle race, or highest tower of sweeties, pub quiz, hopping race, standing long jump, hula-hoop (I can't even do one revolution, not much of a competitor), fastest jigsawing. I am in. If noone else is doing it, I'm not all that interested, I don't jigsaw for the sake of jigsawing, I jigsaw for the sake of competition. Fiery...competitive...redhead? Am I too ginger for jigsaws...?<br />
<br />
My running pace profiles (which my lovely, but oh so heavy, sensor gives me) could be annotated with fast spikes representing who rode/drove past me. The joys of neighbourhood running - forces me to regular bursts of quick, trying to look effortless, between that and farm-poo, recovery runs become interval sessions. I want to look like I can run, I don't want to look slow and steady. I want to be the luminous pink gazelle I see in my head (strangely I don't see her reflected in windows I run past...must be a trick of the light). I'm competitive, a little bit with myself, a big bit with other people.<br />
<br />
So running in a crowd...will I be able to stay slow, warm up, do it like I've done in training? Or will I pick out people I think I should be faster than (entirely judgementally...) and canter past, with my effortless face on. When I meet one car, bike, person, rack up a toot and wave or two per mile the bursts are manageable, but I can't maintain it for 13 miles worth of tooting, whooping, waving, watching...I'll maybe need to make sure and win at something on Saturday, feed the competition beast before the run.<br />
<br />
I'm scared. I think I'll have to be an anti-social runner. I don't want a run buddy. I'll stick to my sensor, and come up with a plan.<br />
<br />
Who knew running was so complicated...<br />
<br />
I'll check in again, but in case I'm slower on Sunday than you hoped I'd be, take note of all the barriers above, One of them is sure to have held me back...<br />
<br />
Any final donations more than welcome <a href="http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/fundraiser-web/fundraiser/showFundraiserPage.action?userUrl=Lucyontherock&faId=537452&isTeam=false" target="_blank">here</a> if you can't donate, take some time to yourself for your mental 'elf (could write a bit of poetry like that), or ask someone else how they are. Ask it like you want to know the answer. Ideally actually do want to know the answer...Lost along the wayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11437348721840642771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-530278525641092091.post-34860645761224106812015-05-21T14:32:00.001-07:002015-05-21T14:32:15.348-07:00Fanciness QuotientI've recently had a bit of a change of work scene, on secondment, not far, but different. It's super. When I got it people said, ooh, they're all so nice, and so fancy! These people looked a bit worried for me when they said it. Almost like they didn't think I was fancy...(niceness is a whole different story)<br />
<br />
To be honest I was a bit worried myself. After the <a href="http://lucyontherock.blogspot.co.uk/2013/01/put-your-foot-in-bag.html" target="_blank">foot-bag</a> debacle, I often wonder what other beauty-fashion-style tips, tricks and moments I'm missing out on. I continue the facade of being an actual girl, an occasionally girly-girl, maybe a little bit fancy, but under real scrutiny it's hard.<br />
<br />
I got engaged over the festive. The ring didn't fit my stumpy finger (let's call it big-boned), so off I went for my first visit to a ring shop. I've never really worn a ring. I didn't even know ballpark answers to the questions. I didn't even understand some of the questions. Is it worth risking faking it, for something you'll have to wear forever...?<br />
<br />
Hairy Mr had employed quite a rigorous criteria in picking the ring all by himself, I was quite impressed. He thought I'd be mad if he spent too much (true), he thought one with a big sticky-out bit (?diamond...?) would get in the way and annoy me (probably true), he thought the "straight across ones" were boring, so he got "a spiky one". Brilliant. I think it's technically wishbone...and I actually think it's perfect, it elongates the big-boned beaut of a finger. But it was too small.<br />
<br />
What size are you normally? She asked. Dress size, shoe size, bra size, height, weight, I can do. Ring size? Don't even know where to start.<br />
<br />
Is the metal ok? She said...like, is it fit for purpose? Happy? Strong enough? The right colour? I have no idea.<br />
<br />
Do your hands go up and down much? She said. Jackpot, I thought. I know this one - they are attached to my arms, they go up and down every time I move my arms, like the whole time! I'm not sure that's what she meant, she didn't appreciate me demonstrating. She didn't even find it funny. Not in a romantic moment like the sweaty palmed frantic trying on of rings you know nothing about. Does it fit? I don't know, how do I know if it fits? Can I jam it on? Does it not fall off? do I need to be able to whirl it round or wiggle it up and down?<br />
<br />
Anyway, I got a ring that fitted, and this was not meant to be about that...<br />
<br />
So I'm not fancy. But I think I'm getting a tiny bit fancier, by osmosis, lapping it up from the office. I have found a gap in provision for those who aren't just all that fancy, but might want to branch out.<br />
<br />
I've been buying new fancy fruit. (on offer, mother). And I think fruit is the one food that doesn't come with instructions. How are you supposed to know what to do? Peel it? I don't want to be the one chowing down on a pineapple, skin and all, just because it sounds a bit like an apple...<br />
<br />
I felt so fancy buying figs. I kept them at the top of my basket. I told too many people. Oh excuse me, did I accidentally bump you with my fig-filled basket? Do I need a bag? Oh for my FIGS? No, no, people who buy figs also bring canvas shopping bags. Having to research what to do with them brought me back down to earth.<br />
<br />
Pomegranates - same. How in the name of God do they make a juice out of it? And how do you get the little beasts out? The Jamie Oliver hit it with a spoon and they all scatter beautifully on the plate thing? Doesn't work out like that. It's pretty messy, but tasty. I'm still deciding if it's worth the effort.<br />
<br />
The most recent entry on the fruit with no instructions list - Sharon Fruit. Doesn't it sound nice and amiable, friendly, ordinary, maybe Brummie or something? Almost not fancy. Until you realise it's actually called Persimmon. Who could be an uppity public school boy. Definitely not a Sharon, but there we are. It looks like a yellowy orange tomato. I haven't eaten one yet. Apparently there are two kinds (you can get a serious grounding in all things fancy from a bit of googling), one of the kinds you eat when barely ripe, crisp and taut, the other you eat when it's really soft and squishy, otherwise it's disgusting.<br />
<br />
I think Sharon's the crisp, taut kind. I think.<br />
<br />
Getting fancier, one fruit at a time.Lost along the wayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11437348721840642771noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-530278525641092091.post-30742418323884352332015-05-20T13:50:00.001-07:002015-05-20T13:55:58.219-07:00Run(/life) Lesson - Do not eat all the foodThe runner lessons continue. I think this learning process is as much a reason for training as the physical fitness. Learning the precise ways in which you are stupid really prepares you for challenges.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Lesson 1: drink while running (water specifically...see Number 2)</div>
<div>
Lesson 2: Don't drink wine. While running, or before running, or for a week before, or at all maybe.... </div>
<div>
Lesson 3: Don't eat all of the food. And when I say "all of the food" I don't mean on your plate, I'm all for plate clearing (I might do well to change my attitude on that one...). I mean all the food in your house. And your shopping bags that you have just filled with food.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This past weekend was my 12 miler. The pinnacle of my training before "the taper" (not the tapier, zoo-friends, though that might be a fun introduction to training. I like to think I could outrun a tapier...but I'm not sure. I might start my animal racing against a sloth, or a penguin, on land). 12 miles...I'd run 8, slowly but surely, then 10 on the brink of death by dehydration, I'd been running a little bit faster this past couple of weeks, maybe thanks to my new slip-slidey leggings and bouncy shoes. I was starting to consider 5 miles "just" 5 miles. I think I was ready. I'd practiced eating a whole bag of jelly babies (not while running, just throughout the day...it's good to be prepared, all the running articles say so), I'd decided my route (twice around Spiggie with a wee bit added on) I'd even practiced wearing my new running pants (while running, unlike the jelly babies).</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I made myself a little water/baby hiding place, parked up, sneaked into the Hotel for a final nervous pee, and I was off. And knowing I had such a long way to go, and that I probably could do it, settled me, and I felt fine, why bother being grumpy when you have to endure yourself for another 2 hours? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Then halfway round, as I thought to myself, I have been so lucky with my training, I've had almost no problems bar laziness, and the weather really has been fine dry, sunny, not windy, an apocalyptic darkness followed me up the Spiggie Hill and engulfed me...well, it was a cloud, a big black nasty cloud. With rain in it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And then came the runner's belly. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unfortunately this was not the sudden appearance of a taut six-pack which I felt compelled to go home and admire, but the rapid onset of a desparate need for facilities. The kind that deal with an urgent, jumbly, gurgly, rumbly, horror.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And so I had to stop...I wasn't ill, so within an hour or so I felt a lot better, but by that time I had to be on my way elsewhere, so I had a short...8 hour...lets call it a "walk break" where I took on some lunch, coffee and cake, and bought some new running socks to make myself feel better. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I ran another 6 miles in the evening, but I'm not sure a 12 miler run over two legs is really what the training program called for...maybe I can opt-out on the half-way of the race, pause on the outskirts of Edinburgh, take in some sights, have a light brunch, maybe a glass of wine and a chat, then rejoin for the second half. That is apparently what I've been training for...I'd need to duck out of the way of the sweepy bus, and record a 10hour PB. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Maybe I'll just have to suck it up and get on with it. At least I know now not to eat all the food. Which of the foods to eat is a different question...one I've not entirely answered. Never mind the pants, socks and jelly bubs (which I didn't get to eat, by the way) what about the belly?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Belly's gonna get ya...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I got out for my recovery run last night, and I think I'm getting faster, or more tolerant to fast, which is not how recovery runs are meant to go. I just can't slow down, who'd have thought I'd be too fast come the end of 10 weeks...? I think I'm just eager to look like a proper runner, vanity when people drive by. Vanity, the belly, inappropriate pants - there are so many hidden hurdles...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I did spend a little bit of my run chasing the Peerie Viking man who has inexplicably started going for walks. For anyone who doesn't know my big hairy better half, the first time we went for a walk, a couple of years ago (I could count on three fingers how many times it had happened since, until the last few weeks...), a local taxi driver did a full on emergency stop, and screechy reverse, to enquire as to his welfare, assuming we must have broken down, or driven into a ditch and be walking for help. He would not believe we were out for a walk. Yes a walk for leisure. No we do not need assistance. Or a lift, we definitely do not need a lift. So this is quite suspicious, laudable, but unexpected behaviour. I love it.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It is so much fun chasing someone. I totally caught him, and Whhhhhoooooooppppaaaaaahh'd his bum on my way by. To be fair to him he was walking, and didn't know I was chasing him, To be fair to me, I'd have caught him anyway...</div>
<div>
<br />
Still open for donations <a href="http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/fundraiser-web/fundraiser/showFundraiserPage.action?userUrl=Lucyontherock&faId=537452&isTeam=false" target="_blank">here</a>...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Lost along the wayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11437348721840642771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-530278525641092091.post-37365598961601799702015-05-14T14:18:00.001-07:002015-05-14T14:18:18.365-07:00Life lessons from old carsThe Little Micra has developed another ailment. A fairly minor one, annoying more than anything. Not a gamechanger, but another rustily subtle reminder that he is on his way out. I wondered about getting a new car, well a nearly new, but I think I'm genetically programmed to need the character of an older gentleman of the vehicle disposition. People with new cars get mad when they break, it's just not meant to happen. When the Micra breaks I get more grateful for every trip. Well done, little fellow, you are clinging on in there. Quite remarkably well I think, 50 runkly, noisy miles a day.<br />
<br />
There are a few driving lessons better unlearned - like judging your speed by the noise and rattling of your uninsulated bubble, rather than the fully functioning speedometer. You have to be going very, very fast before a normal car reaches those decibels. Foot to the floor braking, taking off in third gear...those kinds of things make you look a bit heavy footed and incompetent in a car that doesn't need quite the same geeing up. Let's be more Top Gear and call it handling. It handles differently. Classically.<br />
<br />
When I was wee it felt like there was a 50/50 chance the car would start, which fairly lowers your expectations of car travel. Imagine being grateful just for the car starting - that is a whole heap of grateful every single week. I learned, early on, the shame of breaking down in a heavily trafficked area. There's only so much you can do, and embarrassment doesn't get you far. We had some pretty cool break downs - Le Mans for one, Lockerbie (admittedly not as cool, but a spectacularly bad start to the many 100s of miles to the South of France. It may have been a sign from the Gods to turn back. Parentos didn't listen to the gods...). And witnessing these, I think, gave me an underlying calm when it came to driving (passengers in the early days might dispute that...).<br />
<br />
There are not many things that teach you the power of confident driving in the face of terror and adversity like seeing your mother negotiate the series of roundabouts that is the Kingsway in Dundee with 4 young children in a rickety van that would not change out of third gear. What better way to learn about gears than seeing your father negotiate his way down a steep hill with a series of traffic lights, using only the gears and handbrake after the brakes failed. Apologising profusely to the police, Are you aware your brake light isn't working...? And now I feel, in the same situation I'd be...well maybe calm(er). How better to learn about patience than leapfrogging up the A9 in a Daimler Limousine that puffed steam when it got tired and needed a rest. Old cars, life lessons.<br />
<br />
And then there are the practical lessons. Clearing rural Aberdeenshire of coolant to get you to the boat in time without overheating. That did involve scouring the manual to find where coolant went. Not as embarrassing as scouring the manual to find out how to open the bonnet so I could top up my screenwash. Less embarassing still than scouring the manual to find out what the bright blue D with the lines coming out of it meant, and why everyone was sheilding their eyes and flashing at me...that was, in my defence, my second outing in the Micra, having learned to drive in the height of summer.<br />
<br />
And Jump starts and bump starts. I'm still not sure I know how to do the bump starting...having failed to jump start 3 times while plugged into an ambulance (thankfully I think the people they jump start have a better success rate) I opted out of being in charge of the bump start on the third length of the hospital car park, kindly pushed by the same ambulance men, when it dawned on me I might be doing it wrong...and there was surely only so much strain you should put on an on-shift member of the emergency services. The ever-helpful Gear was on hand to do the bump starting. I think she's a life-lessons-from-old-cars sort too.<br />
<br />
I've never left my lights on since. Not because I have an alarm, but because I have learned. Calling an ambulance (not 999....) to jump start your car? That accelerates the learning to switch your lights off process dramatically.<br />
<br />
More recently the little man has sprung a leak, leaving a soggy passenger footwell. Which lead to a hilarious example of good old British politeness, Oh God, I'm so sorry I forgot to tell you about the puddle I'm so sorry.... (after an hour round trip) Oh, no no! It's me, I always wear inappropriate shoes, my feet are always cold and wet! Really...?<br />
<br />
Most recently one of the hydraulic stick things that opens the boot as started popping off if I close the boot to strongly (which I'm prone to doing having driven home from town once with the boot open, not noticing until I was nearly 20 miles in. It really is that loud and that cold in the Micra). I just pop it back on. As I said, not a game changer, but soon they might all add up, and all I'll be left with is one hydraulic stick with no more car to speak of...then I'll miss the little fellow.Lost along the wayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11437348721840642771noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-530278525641092091.post-84123905088479746402015-05-13T14:23:00.001-07:002015-05-13T14:23:08.681-07:00People I wish I was more like...I've come across lots of people I wish I was more like. If I could squish all their good bits together like plasticine and smoosh them into one person I think that person would be pretty amazing. The best bits might not all work as one though.<br />
<br />
The first person I remember wanting to be like was my best friend in Primary 1. I'm not sure why we were best friends, I think it was more circumstance than anything. We weren't particularly alike and I knew it. She was cool, sometimes she was even a little bit naughty. I've never been cool, and I climbed in a window in P2 but I wouldn't say I was naughty. Not naturally anyway, and feigned naughty just isn't the same. I didn't have much (of value to a 5 year old) to offer Stephanie. I could spell her name better than she could. That doesn't barter you much in P1. She was funny (for a 5 year old), she called me Woosy-Lucy a few times (in jest) but even my superior reading age couldn't come up with a rhyme for Stephanie. What can you do with "Stephanie"?<br />
<br />
Stephanie didn't like Peanut Butter. I loved Peanut Butter.That had to stop...I sold my peanut butter soul for a best friend. Overnight I became a hater. No more peanut butter sandwiches, no more peanut butter on toast, I goaded people for liking it, I wasn't indifferent, I actively disliked it. I'd found something we could have in common and I ran with it...I didn't eat it for nearly 10 years. I relly don't think she noticed. The power of a 5 year old best friend...Then I started eating it out of the jar. In secret (the kind your mum knows all about, one of those secrets). Maybe this is the deep-seated psychological truth behind my secret eating...<br />
<br />
I'm glad I've found myself now, so many years later, I haven't seen my 5 year old best friend for a long, long time. She ditched me in about P5 (it had been on the cards for a while. Since P1 in fact...). My new, assertive, peanut-butter smeared self don't change for noone! Well maybe someone with a severe peanut allergy...but noone else.<br />
<br />
Anyway, the peanut butter tells a bigger story...which I think must in some way be connected to what I was going to say...<br />
<br />
My friends are varied and not especially alike, the bestest of them are ones I want to be more like. Is that a bad thing? Maybe a little bit creepy-weird...? I like to think I just appreciate all their good bits, and the things I like about them are things I'd like to have too (mostly I'm better as a sidekick, but it's good to have aspirations...). I like these kinds of friends - people who make you a better version of you, bring out your best bits. I've tried to have a negatives cull. I don't have the tolerance I used to...so I'm selfishly looking out for myself - life is so much nicer without life sucking people. I saw a kids book about Bucket Fillers and Bucket Dippers - clear your life of bucket dippers, everything is so much brighter!<br />
<br />
The people who can talk to anyone, who introduce themselves with confidence, who are unendingly, genuinely lovely, who always see the good in other people, who are life and soul of the party, the people people want to know, the funny people, the thoughtful people, the kind people, the people who dance and don't care, the people who can swear theatrically the people who can save a bad situation, the ones who always know what to say, who can shatter awkwardness, the people who never assume the worst, the helpers. The people who when you see them brighten your day, or make you reassess how you do things. Make you wish you hadn't commented, not because they make you feel guilty, but because you wish you'd reacted how they did. The man who, when I was in a charity bookshop and an odd man, edging around strangely, dropped his books and ran out of the shop, "Bit strange!" I said making conversation, "Oh aren't we all! Hope everything's ok" said shop man. I'd distanced myself from the man, peering over at him, whispering, he'd stood next to him and offered his kindness. I want to be more like him.<br />
<br />
So I'm going to tell these people I want to be more like. They so often can't see it for themselves...go tell someone how they're super today.<br />
<br />
(Currently auditioning as motivational speaker...encourager....vomit inducer...)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhalzDS_e5vRyqAdx0VNcZ8sAi_8gCzxskU7mKIIrmXTNRcdjwlXSnyhJSKsaIdfxpl9BBZROmsB8dQ44Zo6udkYPzm8rDZ_Tp47u8PbVtA3q5qJwZF9TA-LXzmWdOaJwzjmhXkOD3meMuS/s1600/sunbeams.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhalzDS_e5vRyqAdx0VNcZ8sAi_8gCzxskU7mKIIrmXTNRcdjwlXSnyhJSKsaIdfxpl9BBZROmsB8dQ44Zo6udkYPzm8rDZ_Tp47u8PbVtA3q5qJwZF9TA-LXzmWdOaJwzjmhXkOD3meMuS/s1600/sunbeams.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
(Or maybe just trying to make myself look lovely, without having to get up early enough to fancy myself up a bit...)</div>
Lost along the wayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11437348721840642771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-530278525641092091.post-61543378011593473152015-05-13T13:41:00.002-07:002015-05-13T13:41:51.506-07:00New shooooes (and "brief"ly, running pants...)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVG-8DiozY6WEo1LqrhfjrzbR7EAt4KJAeD6rfGXGsfipv7ItXUCt3tq7U5ZQ0CQAYBU_weM17xAWF2PUyINXnvVmwkdsKu-30fwzHdVjj-GC-opD2ymDeB7BhtrAaUhb1SvdcTMnpdO4T/s1600/new+shoes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVG-8DiozY6WEo1LqrhfjrzbR7EAt4KJAeD6rfGXGsfipv7ItXUCt3tq7U5ZQ0CQAYBU_weM17xAWF2PUyINXnvVmwkdsKu-30fwzHdVjj-GC-opD2ymDeB7BhtrAaUhb1SvdcTMnpdO4T/s320/new+shoes.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
This here is my new shoes. You really appreciate new shoes when you've worn the others nearly through to the pavement. These feel like I'm bounding along on springy platforms. Makes me a bit scuffy footed when I'm being lazy, but I'll get used to them. Annoyingly they don't have a little space under the insole for my Nike+ sensor thing, so I've had to put it in a silly shoe-wallet...may need to find another solution.<br />
<br />
Buying new running things always feels a little bit like training, like it might make me a tiny bit better. The first few sessions of any period of running have always involved just wearing the clothes for me. Maybe going around the house dressed in running kit, maybe driving home in running kit (this one is difficult, sometimes the guilt of seeing people's admiration, hearing their congratulations, feeling their guilt at not exercising, brought on by my wearing running kit, is enough to tip me over the edge and make me run, when maybe I'm not quite ready. I think this is technically a preparation phase...). Now that I am running, I think having new kit (all bargains, Mother, don't fret...) counts as an extra session.<br />
<br />
Apart from the shoes there are running pants. I think I've settled on the race day (r)underwear. An unlikely choice that need not be discussed and is, in any case, way overshadowed by an unexpected player, perfectly timed after the chub-rub chat. New leggings (or tights, they call them. Capri tights...). Not just any leggings, but ones that make me feel like I've larded up before going out, like a slippery eel, a greased pig, *almost* like I've lost all feeling in my legs (too tight? no....not like that), they're so slip-slidey there is zero friction as the Russian-power-lifter thighs glide past each other. You might even say like the hot-panted running ladies. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't felt it. They are amazing.<br />
<br />
But they don't have a pocket. Any suggestions of where to keep my jelly babies would be appreciated. Note the new running pants are not an appropriate place to keep jelly babies...Lost along the wayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11437348721840642771noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-530278525641092091.post-58944322282473613262015-05-10T07:34:00.000-07:002015-05-10T07:46:29.429-07:00A sweaty beef tomato on a panting hippo bodyRunning's pretty sexy. So they say. All hot pants and crop-tops, swishy ponytails, single beads of (probably sugar sweet) sweat, fluttering eyelashes, long toned limbs loping along like a rippling race horse.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I thought it must happen from the very first step. The sexiness. Turns out it's a lie. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Running might lead to sexiness...but the actual running? No. Doesn't work out like that for me. On almost all counts...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Hot pants? This is a no go. This I found out for myself long ago, unfortunately, but my kind auntie offered the knowledge, a very auntie like piece of advice, I think - one of those things you really need to know (if you don't already) but that you'd only really get from a mum/sister/auntie, or maybe a best friend, but less likely. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Chaffing" she said. "Chub rub?" I said. "Yes, I know chub rub..."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unfortunately not just in running related incidents, but I'll stick with them. Chub-rub is why I wear leggings and not shorts. When I was on holiday, going for an early morning run (I knew about chub rub already, but had somehow convinced myself that early morning, warm weather running, along a beach in tropical climes would surely be <i>so </i>much like the sexy advert running I could do it in shorts and a vest. after maybe half a mile I was running like I was riding a tiny imaginery horse. Or had developed some kind of worrying pathological gait. People might have thought I'd suffered a small mid run stroke. It was unpleasant. And sore, really sore, which is difficult on a hot holiday. You have to learn to tie a sarong like a giant baggy nappy, or not be out of the pool long enough for the natural gliding powers of water to wear off. Or wear trousers (this last is probably kindest to society).</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I should have known better. I won't be wearing shorts in Edinburgh.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I am starting to worry about all the mentions of "bodyglide" in the half-marathon tips I read...I'll see how I go in the 12 miles, apart from my feet towards the end of the biggies I don't think I've had any "gliding" problems, but maybe 12 will be a few steps too far. Investment in ShockAbsorber "Run" bras has taken care of the <a href="http://lucyontherock.blogspot.co.uk/2011/10/day-1-going-strong.html" target="_blank">boob-blisters</a> problem from a couple of years ago (thank goodness) but the bottom end of the (r)underwear situation remains unsolved. But not urgent. Don't worry. Or think about it anymore...I'm sorry.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Swishy" ponytails...I've started growing my hair again after chopping it off in a moment of boredom last year. I'm getting married next year (still getting used to that idea...) and I think the more hair the better for whoever is beautfiying me. Worst case scenario we go for "the Cousin it" and ignore the face. I do have nice hair. So anyway, this new long hair. It keeps whipping me in the eye when I run. Which is quite sore and very annoying. Imagine being blinded by your own hair...and when the hair's not whipping me in the eye I'm trying to blink flies out of my eyes, which really puts a dampener on the pace.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Trying to hock a fly out of your eyelashes without poking your own eye out, while your ponytail whips you in the other eye, which is stinging from your own sweat dripping into it, as you run along on your tiny imaginery horse creating a safety gap to shield yourself from chub-rub...now that is sexy running. It's like a crystal maze challenge with no fluttery money prize.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And to top it all off the ginger-genes (see earlier mention of nice hair - I'm not anti-ginger, just recognising the downsides...) mean I turn full on pillar box red on exertion, for a long, long time afterwards. Seemingly only in the face department, so I look even more bizarre with my milky white neck/arms/legs and sweaty beef tomato head. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And apparently they take your photo and put it online for the world to see, tomato head-Quasimodo, blind in one eye, shuffling along in a river of my own sweat, cursing they insect life smooshed into my face. Keep posted for that...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Lost along the wayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11437348721840642771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-530278525641092091.post-5517559932148037212015-05-10T06:54:00.000-07:002015-05-10T06:54:17.926-07:003 weeks to go...It's 3 weeks till half marathon day, I'll definitely be finished by now, on my own two legs or by sweepy bus. Hopefully the own two legs option. I've had a bit of a running lull this past couple of weeks, whether due to big runs or nights out I'm not sure, but it's been a bit of a chore.<br />
<br />
I didn't do my proper runs this week, I went out, but not far or fast or with much effort, so come Friday I went for the "cross train" option on the plan and went for a swim. Swimming was good, I've not been in ages, was a bit busy for my liking , but no sign of the old swim-stalker (I have been seeing him a lot in Tesco recently, maybe he thinks I'm the stalker...). I did some over taking, frantic, and realised I don't know how to pull back in after an overtake, lest I kick someone in the face, so it was just a frantic dash to the end and turn and go.<br />
<br />
So come Saturday I was ready to go, I was actually excited to run, and a little bit nervous. It was "just" 5 miles, not far enough to test out my "fuelling" plan thankfully, as someone ate all my jelly babies...I went around Spiggie, and actually ran, not fast by global standards, in the week that saw the anniversary of the 4 minute mile being broken, but fast by Lucy standards. And it felt so much better than usual. I was properly knackered at the end, my leggies were tired and it was hard but I felt like I ran instead of plodding. Hurray! Victory is mine! Not sure I could do another one and a half the same, but I think I've broken the feeling that I need to save myself (we'll see what I'm thinking to that next week as mile 10 comes and goes).<br />
<br />
I'd be a bit annoyed if I got to the end of the half marathon and felt like I could've tried a bit harder...I'm all for just finish,make sure you finish. But I think I'm drifting away from thinking slow and steady is the way. Yesterday my pace varied massively - fast downhill, slow up, buying myself time on the way down. Seemed to work for yesterday - we'll see how the rest of the week goes.<br />
<br />
Apart from the Run/Plod changeover the run highlights were beautiful Spiggie (as usual) and an otter! A chunky looking otter waddled down a burn as I ran past about 4 miles in. May be the best place to run ever...can't see a treadmill gym view beating that.<br />
<br />
I've also gotten quite used to running without music. I always used to have music, to block out the noise of my struggling, and distract me. Which now seems silly, if it was so awful I needed musical distraction why was I doing it? Then I washed my iPod. Accidentally. I've never replaced it, but can't imagine running with music now, I like running for the thinking time, when I'm going far enough that there's a gap in the middle where I'm warmed up and managing, and not quite thinking about wanting to finish, then that's a little bit of time where I don't think I should be doing anything else, a little pocket of emptiness that I can fill with any thinks I want.<br />
<br />
I think this is the main thing keeping me from running with other people. In some ways I like the idea - it might make me run a bit faster, it might make me run a bit further, but it does mean I wouldn't be on my own, I don't think I'd be a chatty runner, I don't particularly want to be gee'd along if I'm going slow. I'm quite looking forward to just running wherever I want when I'm done with this training, though I might need to have some kind of plan to make sure I do go...guess I'll find out in a few weeks if my motivation has come all the way back from Edinburgh with me.<br />
<br />
An easyish week this week, then 12 miles on Sunday...I'm going to wallow in positive thoughts till then. Once I've written about the joys of chubrub and boob-blisters.Lost along the wayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11437348721840642771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-530278525641092091.post-76356340567336979222015-05-05T14:56:00.000-07:002015-05-05T14:59:59.196-07:00Newsflash - Wine Affects Athletic Performance(negatively...in case there was doubt)<br />
<div>
Another lesson learned. Like the "you should drink water when you run for more than a wee while" lesson it's something I already know. But there is a difference between knowing and<i> knowing, </i>the kind of knowing that comes from experience. Like, I know it's not a good idea to eat 18 bits of toast and a packet of biscuits, I know there isn't physically room for that without some discomfort, but knowing isn't enough to stop me trying. Then you <i>know.</i> </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I know it's not a good idea to go south on the ferry in a storm when they've warned people not to travel. Of course I know that. But when you're clinging to the floor, your calming breaths and motivational pep-talk being interrupted by a squawky, old-enough-to-know-better Liverpudlian child puking at your feet, and you feel a little bit of sick soak through your sock (no parental intervention) and you wonder if murder on a boat in high seas is a forgiveable crime of passion. Then you <i>know.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
So today I did my first run after the 10 miler. I think the 10 miles affected me more than I thought, legs were a bit tired. But I think what affected me more than the 10 miles, was the 10 wines (<made up for number alliteration...I hope it wasn't 10...). I've not been out much at all this last couple of months, but when I have I have felt it for days afterwards. I like to think this is because I've morphed into an athlete. Part of me thinks it's because I'm getting old. Either way it is discouraging drink, which can only be a good thing I suppose.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I think the routine of a training plan is just making me notice. Something I did quite easily, like a sprightly spring lamb last week, sees me huffing and puffing like a condemned ewe this week. But I'll be better tomorrow. Tomorrow is "Tempo training" which sounds very fancy. I like to think I'm getting a little better at it - what was at first a change of speed imperceptible to the human eye is now a change of pace detectable by an actual measuring device, so tomorrow is the first step in my new get-faster master plan. Wish me luck...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Things I <i>know</i> this week - take it from me, you don't have to find out for yourself - it's a good idea to drink water when you're running, it might even be a good idea to eat something (thanks for the tips running ladies who've come with advice), and wine does not make me a better runner. I might go so far as to say it makes me considerably worse. And really grumpy. Like even more grumpy than usual. But I still <i>know </i>wine isn't necessarily bad. It means well.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
These might seem obvious...I'm ok with that, I'm still working on the big things, not at the tiny margins stage quite yet.</div>
Lost along the wayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11437348721840642771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-530278525641092091.post-21313037799832263782015-05-04T14:21:00.000-07:002015-05-04T14:21:08.669-07:00Run, run, run as fast as you canEven if as fast as you can is slow...<br />
<br />
I'm 8 weeks in to my 12 week half marathon training. Which, scarily, means 4 weeks from now it'll be all over. Hopefully it won't have ended in the sweepy bus. If I out-run the sweepy bus I'll be happy, I'd like to go quicker, but arriving unsweeped will do me for a first attempt.<br />
<br />
Training is going not too bad, I've had a couple of low motivation weeks this past 2 weeks, but I think I've caught up and am back on the wagon after a 10 miler on Saturday. This was my first ever double digit run, but unfortunately did involve quite a lot of run-walk-run-walk after the 7 mile mark. Due, I think to a mixture of unfitness and stupidity. I didn't have anything to drink with me. That was pretty stupid...lesson learned for my next long run. It did give me something to think about though, and the opportunity for some internal amateur dramatics. An internal monologue about your own slow death from thirst under a baking(ha!) Shetland sun, experiencing discomfort only before felt by people doing the Marathon Des Sables, a 6 day ultra-marathon, fairly keeps you entertained for a few miles. And I tell you I can really ham it up. On the inside.<br />
<br />
After reading "Born to Run" (courtesy of the sister) I have been humming and hawing about buying new trainers. I had thought to get ones with extra arch support when I started, but then I concluded I was in fact just too heavy for my own feet, and rather than structural support I should shift some timber and run until my feet manned up a bit. Which has worked. My trainers are still pretty ancient and worn though, so I've ordered some new ones. I fully expect to spring about like Mo Farah when they arrive.<br />
<br />
So far training has included a one-off fight with some horrid tirricks, who swooped and bullied me along a road, resulting in a half forward, half sideways shuffle, with panted negotiation, that I really was leaving, I meant them no harm, what are they doing nesting on a public road, and leave me alone type whimpering. I emerged unscathed, but after seeing them pecking a polar bear on the snout on Frozen Planet I think a good degree of alarm is reasonable. There has also been an assortment of weather. Hailstones, snow, rain, wind. Though it has been largely fine, I've been quite lucky. I hope the wind training means my real time equivalent pace is a minute or two a mile faster than my Shetland wind pace... but I'm not sure that is any more than wishful thinking.<br />
<br />
I seem to have mastered the slow plod, so this few weeks is going to be dedicated to running a little faster (I'm sure the new shoes will see to that...) and maybe a bit of strength training. I think when all this is by with I'll keep running, but maybe only up to an hour, anything more seems a bit overly, and maybe dull, though I like the idea of being able to run to places...running home again, not so much. I might start doing my own "Rave Runs" like in Runners World, that are really just photos of cool places to run, of which there are many up here. Once I'm done training I'll start running interesting places and taking pictures of where I've been (great excuse for a rest...).<br />
<br />
Over and out - I'll be back with more soon, maybe something other so as not to be a run bore...<br />
<br />
I've had lots of very kind and generous donations already, all of which make me try a little bit harder in training...if you have a spare pound and haven't visited yet, <a href="http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/fundraiser-web/fundraiser/showFundraiserPage.action?userUrl=Lucyontherock&faId=537452&isTeam=false" target="_blank">this is where to go...</a><br />
<br />Lost along the wayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11437348721840642771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-530278525641092091.post-90443203875045236752014-11-01T10:27:00.001-07:002014-11-01T10:51:33.433-07:002014, nearly over and outHow annoying, I'd written quite a wee update post, swooshed it down to copy and paste a link and it appears to have disappeared. I clearly don't use the old ipad app often enough to know how to use it properly.<div><br><div>Gah.</div><div><br></div><div>I'll try to recreate it...but I imagine some of the brilliance will be lost.</div><div><br></div><div>It's the 1st of November, 2014 is flying by and scarily nearly over. I'm lapping up the cafe culture in Mareel with a peppermint tea, it's been a beautiful day and I've come to town to see fireworks. I love fireworks, mostly I love the bang. The colours are all well and good but I'm in it for the bang. Feeling noise, like the subway rumble, or the bass of the busker man on Sauchiehall St, or when the double bass joins in at a concert, I love that rumbley, grumbley feeling. I used to always wish I had someone to go to the fireworks with, to do that sickening cuddly, hands in pockets, cosy, romantic, movie romance thing. Turns out it's not all that great. So I'm excited to be going by myself. I think I'm still stuck being anxious to please, doing things I want to do feels like I'm imposing myself. Worrying that Viking-boy won't be having fun really takes away from my fun. Not that he'd object, laid back, easy pleased soul that he is. But I worry. So tonight I'm going it alone. Then home for some soup, and bread, and maybe ice cream, or wine...or neither.</div><div><br></div><div>I've entered a half marathon in the time I've been away from the ether, in Edinburgh, 31st May 2015. I have a charity place, running for the Mental Health Foundation. I thought the pressure of fundraising might force me to train, and run, and raise cash, for what is of course a great cause. I thought I could have a dual attack of raise cash and awareness - if you don't give me money, you better have a look at your own mental health, or help out someone else. Nothing like a bit of guilt tripping.</div><div><br></div><div>That's part one of project kick up da rear, part two has bee a stuttery start but may involve the 5:2 diet. I have intermittent pangs of age awareness, where I feel immensely old (I know, I know, 28...who'd believe it?!) and mortal and vulnerable to ill health. I'm generally fairly healthy, but not helping myself any by lugging around extra lard, and not luggin it very far most days. I watched the "fast diet" programme (http://thefastdiet.co.uk) a long while ago and it's been brewing in me since, I did try it for a while and I'm not entirely sure why I stopped, but I did, so I've restarted this past week, we'll see how it goes. I like the idea of the health benefits alongside the weight loss, and it seems fairly easy to stick with. I may update further...</div><div><br></div><div><br></div></div>Lost along the wayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11437348721840642771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-530278525641092091.post-5514418629030024612013-10-03T05:13:00.001-07:002014-11-01T10:57:57.590-07:003rd October last year I surely wrote this. May not branch into poetry...I'm sad today. I'm not ok.<div>It's not the answer they're looking for,</div><div>Or I don't volunteer it, if it is.</div><div><br></div><div>I'm fine, I'm good, I'm ok,</div><div>Easier to say, less hassle.</div><div>I'm not sure which is true.</div><div><br></div><div>I think it's just too much,</div><div>I've run out of headspace.</div><div>Everything has weight.</div><div><br></div><div>I'm never free,</div><div>It's never light and easy.</div><div>I have baggage.</div>Lost along the wayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11437348721840642771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-530278525641092091.post-30727248344802467092013-07-14T15:28:00.001-07:002013-07-14T15:28:54.098-07:00Extras...I'm going to try some more sewing too...maybe even with pictures, from far away so you can only see the general effect, not the actual messy handiwork.<div><br></div><div>At some point in the future, sometime, probably. Maybe.</div>Lost along the wayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11437348721840642771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-530278525641092091.post-92189175453611919182013-07-14T15:27:00.001-07:002013-07-14T15:27:15.475-07:00Reappearance, vitamins, moody coos.Well, hello there, where have you all been? I've been busy writing time-sensitive posts, the "this post will self-destruct in 5 seconds..." kind. You probably missed them.<div><br></div><div>Anyhow, I am endeavouring to be back, to make writing part of my plan. I've just had a week off work, and discovered how very intolerant and moody I am. Now anyone who actually knows me may not find this to be a huge surprise, as far as I've been told I've been prone to grumpiness since my very early days, but I think I am now worse. I think my reserves of calm and tolerance have been lowered. Actually, how I see it, which fits quite well with a Buddhisty thing I think I posted before, about emotions or personalities being like the sea where you can have a depth of calm, which isn't fazed by storms and waves, or you could be at the beach end of sea, where every thing is lived out in that top wee bit, every wave, high, crash, storm, splash is all you have, now I wouldn't say I'm in the latter group, I like to hope I have some depth, but it's a bit like now I have a shipwreck or something on my seabed. Or a giant sea monster maybe, or a rock, at least that is erodible...so that's changed the profile of my feeling, sometimes it doesn't get in the way, and I'm calm and tolerant, but sometimes the monster gets very in the way, and the waves and crashes have nowhere to go.</div><div><br></div><div>That makes me sound a bit mental...</div><div><br></div><div>So, I have a new plan, I think I need to do things to improve this. Generally I think I'm fairly happy, so not my mood in general as such, more my reserves, to flatten out the ups and downs a bit. Maybe I'm a bit manic...mood controllers, there are probably lots of things that affect moods, I've changed some over the last year, like trying to stay away from negative people, who moan and groan, and try and trick you into moaning and griping too, until you've accidentally agreed you hate everything, and everything is horribly unfair, and woe is you, it really is a slippery slope with some people...best to steer clear. I've also tried to adopt some perspective, in a fairly crude way, where I think "is this the worst thing that could happen?" generally the answer is no, and I can stop worrying, so I'm probably less of a worrier now. The bits I've paid less attention to are the things I do, I know i feel better if I do exercise, get fresh air, and am generally fitter, and I know I've been moaning about being a chunker for a long while, so changing those will make me feel better, and food, and drink, these definitely affect how I feel. Whether in a mood enhancing or a fatness/thinness way I'm really not sure. Either way the better I eat, the better I feel, the less caffeine I have the better I feel, and I have started getting the most godless hangovers (now that I'm old), drinking doesn't seem to suit me much anymore.</div><div><br></div><div>I am going to try to fix these things, I'm doing a pedometer challenge at the moment, I'm going to start running again, netball season is starting soon, I'm going to eat straight forward food, I really don't mind boring once I get started, and drink less tea and coffee. I'm hoping the side effects of this will be me being less moody and irritable and generally nicer (I'll soon find out which are actually character traits and cannot be blamed on ingestion...), slim lining a bit, having beautiful glowing skin and a glossy coat...and maybe one day being happy having my photo taken...</div><div><br></div><div>I'm also taking vitamins, I'm anticipating a big placebo effect of these probably, but who knows, the might do me some good on the inside too, some vitamin B(chosen because it had pictures of little tablet with sweatbands on...I have a sweatband on order...), vitamin D + calcium, as we're severely lacking in sunshine up here, and vit D deficiency seems to be getting trouble for causing all kinds of things these days, and fish oil, because my mum thinks fish oil is the saviour of the universe I think, and she's right about most things (annoyingly...). A fairly watertight method for self prescription of vitamins I think.</div><div><br></div><div>I'm going to write too, in the hope that it'll be calming, or therapeutic maybe. I did consider going to bereavement counselling, but I don't think I really I need it, I think I'm getting on ok, you surely have to be a bit sad sometimes, as long as your overall face is leaning towards happy I think you're generally ok. I might have to write some secret bits I suppose, if they are not for public consumption...not in ay kind of incriminating way, just in a peerie bit secret way. We'll see, I'll not tease you when I do with ay kind of hints or clues, or dramatic proclamations. That would be mean.</div><div><br></div><div>I've boiled an egg for tomorrow's breakfast, to have with some beans (exciting I know), and have some salary stuff for lunch. Pretty sure I'll be thin when I get home. LOL, JOKES. Eugh, I shouldn't do that. I mean, pretty sure I'll be happy when I get home...</div><div><br></div><div>Night all.</div>Lost along the wayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11437348721840642771noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-530278525641092091.post-55387550901808481772013-02-03T13:52:00.001-08:002013-02-03T15:10:27.586-08:00Things boys are rubbish at - a longish term, unverified, unblinded study.As well as being unblinded, unverified, very biased and with no real method this study has a very small sample size. Namely males who have, to their great misfortune, been in some way involved in my life. So, you may well be one of them, or know who I'm talking about. I'm not sure if these are universal truths, I'm sure there are exceptions. I have in fact met some exceptions. But, largely, I think these things are true.<br />
<br />
I've never been one to hanker after feminism. I feel like I was born a little too late for it, apart from an incident in Primary 1 when I was forced to make an Easter bonnet instead of a Red Indian headband, because that's what girls do (if only Pocahontas had been more famous then, I could have constructed a better defence), I've never really felt the weight of inequality on my terribly delicate feminine shoulders. I think I did take part in the "girls are the best" chants in the playground, but that was more leisure than feminism. I'm more than happy to accept now that there are some things that boys, generally, are better at, often for biological reasons. I'm not talking fathering children, or reaching high stuff, I'm more talking spatial awareness things. Though on spatial awareness skills I think I'm fairly masculine. And I genuinely think I'm quite good at parking.<br />
<br />
Bearing all of these things in mind, there are a few things that I think boys are rubbish at. And I am quite prepared to say I think they're rubbish at them because they're boys. This has been quite some build up for what are a few small things. I've limited myself to 3, I'm sure I could possibly find more. On informing my peerie viking of this impending post he was not too offended, and suggested I might need many volumes to record all of the things boys are good at. A suitable, and probably quite boyish response of acceptance, something which, generally, I think girls aren't very good at.<br />
<br />
I hope noone has read this far hoping for some boy bashing - boys are so mean! They play games, and are horrible to girls, or some single girl woes - I'm afraid you may be disappointed.<br />
<br />
1. Boys are rubbish at hanging stuff up. Wet towels, washing, clothes...I'd have thought this was quite a logical thing, hanging for optimum dryness. But no. Scrunchled, bundled, rolled, piled, creased, squinty. All of these words might apply. And the very next day (I'll admit this is more related to my current situation than to my previous observations...), where's my towel? Which one's my towel? Why's it still wet? He appears to be learning on that front. Still terrible at hanging up washing, or putting things on coathangers though.<br />
<br />
2. Boys can't change bedcovers. I always thought a greater armspan and height from ground level would give you unimaginable advantages in this arena, but, in fact, any boy I have ever met in the process of changing bedcovers (at least 5...) does it in a completely ridiculous way. They haven't learned the inside out, shakey, shakey (I'm pretty sure everyone does it that way?), instead they blindly stuff it in like putting ferrets in a bag, shoogle it about a bit then plop it on the bed. Come bed time you find you have a corner of duvet cover with no duvet friend snuggled into the inside corner, and the pillow ridge is masquerading as a soft pillow middle. And there you are, head propped 12" off the bed and only an empty triangle of duvet cover to keep you warm.<br />
<br />
These first two annoy me because they're things I don't specially like doing, but they're not worth not doing, for fear of the terribly executed consequences...the last is a personal irk, that may not apply to anyone else in the world. It comes to light regularly, and can almost never be admonished, as it generally becomes apparent off the back of great kindness, and what kind of horrible witch complains about something so trivial when such great kindness has been done? I shall set the scene.<br />
<br />
Such a horrible witch is feeling a little unwell, and sorry for herself, after puking up her burns supper in a non-drink related vom-incident. I tossed and turned and dozed. And then, like an angel, it came to me in a dream. Marmalade on toast. That was what I wanted. And, like a person lost in the desert who hasn't had a sip of water in days, I croaked "maaaarrm...aa...lade...!" rather dramatically. I didn't think we had any, and the disadvantage of living remotely and rurally, shops aren't often open. But my peerie viking had a marmaladey lifeline, in the form of an RNLI jar of the orangey goodness which had come in a Christmas hamper. "Do you want me to bring you some tea and marmalade on toast?"<br />
<br />
"Yeess..." I whispered, weakly, from my death bed.<br />
<br />
And he did. Except the toast, were we to study the surface area, was only roughly 15% covered in marmalade. That 15% was good, the rest was just toast. The kind with no marmalade.<br />
<br />
Had this been an isolated incident I might have sent it back, but it was anything but. I ate it. It was a very kind gesture, it is, as they say, the thought that counts. Except when it's the marmalade that counts.<br />
<br />
Later, (this bit is by no means essential to the story, but I'm beginning to wonder if we're starting to have differences. And, as an inexperienced girlfriend, I just don't know when differences become important - marmalade, and him not liking peanut butter - are we incompatible? It is a worry.) anyway, later, in the shop, I thought marmalade - I might want that again. I should have just put some in the basket, but now we're all domesticated we have to discuss items, give them a context, dedicate them to a meal, justify them, agree, then put them in the basket. It is quite an event, shopping. "Shall we get more marmalade?" "No, there's loads left". Now I should never have asked, because once you have conferred it is very difficult to overrule, especially when you have not, as they say, had your knife in the marmalade jar (a much underused metaphor).<br />
<br />
What I thought, at this moment, and had I been a bit more highly strung and shop stressy, like the girl I saw pushing her trolley into a display of bagels in a rage in Tesco (she was about 30), I'd have said "No, no we do not have enough marmalade - we had a tiny, tinsy, winsy, show jar out of a hamper. It is approximately the size of a thimble and I could easily use it on 2 slices of decent sized bread. If you weren't so rubbish at spreading, and covered even 50% of the toast surface area we would soon run out - on your war-time rations, however, of course we have at least enough to feed a family of 12 for a year. You can't spread! I know, I said it. You. Can't. Spread!" And then I'd have stormed out of the shop, it could have been the end.<br />
<br />
In actual fact I haven't used any more marmalade yet, so we do have plenty, the jar is still tiny however, and just to make a point I might go and buy an enormous jar. So he was right. But, as previously observed in many boys:<br />
3. Boys can't spread.<br />
<br />
I may have to revisit these cavernous differences that are appearing in our relationship. Spreading and peanut butter may only be the beginning...we might not last the month.Lost along the wayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11437348721840642771noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-530278525641092091.post-69947863071468099292013-01-30T13:54:00.002-08:002013-01-30T13:54:44.354-08:00Hair and punctuation. A beautiful combination?The title suggests a connection between the two which I'm not about to demonstrate. There probably is some kind of tenuous link...mostly I've just thought to write a wee bit about both, but neither's hugemongous enough for its own post. Though once I get started on punctuation you never know where I might finish up...<br />
<br />
I have, over the last year or so, by way of a number of haircuts, gotten myself a hairstyle, which I think might actually suit me. I'm still working on some finer points, but it is, all in all, falling the right way. For most of my early life my mum cut my hair, which was fine, but meant I developed a fear of hairdressers. They all seemed so cool, and pretty and fashionable. I was not any of these things. I realise I'm paying them lots of money for a service, but I'm still worried I'm not cool enough. That I'd really need to dress up to fit in, to know some kind of hairstyle related description, some of the secret hair language, or a celebrity I wanted to look like. I don't know celebrities, the only ones who spring to mind when thinking about hair are Little My from the moomins, Hey Arnold(though I think he's more head than hair, and Princess Leia from Starwars - I could confidently say, "do not make me look like any of these people!" but I suspect they might need more guidance.<br />
<br />
And so, over the years, I have been collecting intelligence. When I vaguely mumble and make choppy gestures with my fingers I listen to what they say, banking the terms for my next visit - choppy, feathered, shaped, layered. I'd, fearfully, gone for "Just tidied up a bit" for a few haircuts, then felt a little disappointed in myself when I came out looking exactly the same. I spent the obligatory time drying and straightening for nights out, swishing and swooshing, trying different products, mousses, hairspray, magic oomph...who knows what else...it largely looked about the same, not very exciting. II tried dying it, but every time realised I liked my own colour better and waited for it to wash out.<br />
<br />
Then, one momentous day, I uttered a word I had known for a while, not one I'd picked up in the hairdressers, one I'd never thought I would use. The f-word. "Uhh...maybe...maybe, I thought I might, if you think it would suit me...I don't really know but, maybe what about a bit of a fringe?" A side fringe? No...like an actual across your head eyebrow tickler fringe.<br />
<br />
And so it was. And still is. I now (mostly) have to take some care of my hair, by way of drying it in the right direction, though it is fine to just leave it, it drives in a fairly non-nonsensical way. I still tell some lies at the hairdresser - how do you normally wear it? Uhh...just like straight I suppose (or wet, part dried by my car heaters then scrunchled on top of my head. What products do you use? Oh...normally Aussie stuff, not much though (or, shampoo...and quite often conditioner.). I have also recently broken out of my book your next appointment cycle too, which I realised was detrimental to my plans of growing hair. So I shall leave it a while, maybe go for a fringe trim in between (obviously this will involved outfit planning and hair-doing before attendance, lest they refuse...). My words of choice for next time - "dry cut trim please"...I'll let you know how I get on.<br />
<br />
And so we come to punctuation. I don't like to be too much of a grammar/punctuation/written english nazi, the odd out of place apostrophe doesn't really annoy me, lots of people have trouble with apostrophes. And commas - they are my very best punctuation friend, full stops and I are a little estranged, except the little triplet ones. I use them far too often. I failed an english writing exam once for using too many commas, in something I'd written about conversation, the same year we were studying stream of consciousness technique in a book with about 1 full stop in the whole 100 pages. Approximately. I didn't actually read the book, so couldn't say exactly, but you get the idea. It is obviously not something that weighs heavily on my mind now.<br />
<br />
The punctuation that really gets me, that makes me want to not cry, but be physically violent, is the inappropriate exclamation mark. With every extra unnecessary one like another little stab in the eardrum as I feel the person shouting at me. Or jumping up and down, waving their arms, breathlessly exclaiming. I hate it. I had to temper my hatred a little in the not too distant past, or I should maybe say my hatred was tempered, as it snuck up on me somewhat. Or, it snuck up on me!!!! When I first started the modern day courting correspondence of facebook messaging and texts with my now peerie viking, there were many unnecessary exclamation marks. The first I saw it I mentally noted it, but soon I stopped noticing them, and now he uses them less often. My senses were clearly clouded by some kind of affection...the exclamation marks were like bouncy, excitable, labrador puppy marks, not yuppy, inflected, self-centred, knobber marks. Unfortunately this effect only seems to work with him, exclamations from all other corners of the globe irk me. Or get my goat (?) which, if it's right, is a saying I might start using more often. Probably not followed by exclamation marks, because I don't ordinarily shout in people's faces, so why would I write like that? I suppose it may well be representative of how some people do speak, maybe they are giving a warning - "I'll probably shout in your face!!! Cos I'm so excited!! And loud LOL!!! You'll probably hate me!! Stay away!!!" Like a warning bell. Maybe I should be grateful.<br />
<br />
On a lighter note I think my favourite punctuation misuse is inappropriate quotation marks. My favourite find of these so far, was the mystical door at uni which bore the sign:<br />
<br />
'In order for the door to keep "revolving" please keep "walking" '<br />
<br />
I loved that sign. Even better when acted out with bunny ear gestures, try it for yourself.Lost along the wayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11437348721840642771noreply@blogger.com0