...And then it was time to call in the big dogs.

I have decided, though secretly I have known it for quite some time, that I am awful at exercise.

I cannot pretend to be one of those people who love to exercise. It’s the first thing they think of the in the morning, and when they eat they are far more concerned with how they will burn it off.

As you are all aware (from previous blogs, which weren’t about shoes!) I have been running. Or at least attempting to run frequently and to power through the pain and stitches that I suffer after about a mile sometimes even less. On one occasion I got cramp tying my shoes laces.

I do not want to be long distance runner, I just want to be fitter. I don’t care if I can run a marathon (would be nice, but ridiculously unachievable at the moment)  - I would just like to fit enough so that I that my chest doesn’t explode and so I don’t look like I’ve been swimming when I get back.

Is that too much to ask?

The problem with being a self-motivated home-exerciser is that somehow there is always a reason not to go. “Its not sunny enough”, “its too sunny”, “its raining”, “it’s just been raining so I might fall over”… or my favourite and most well-used, “I can’t be bothered”

So it was time to call in the big dogs.

I have recruited the help of happy and enthusiastic exercisers – but who turn on you in an instant if you are rubbish. The bulldogs of fitness.

Yes, I have joined exercise classes with the Mr and Mrs Motivators of this world.

… And Miss USA and Miss Hendo come too.

It seemed the next logical (and only) step. I ignore myself when I tell myself to keep running to the next lamp post, but when there’s some one yelling at me to “…grape vine to the left, squat, squat, grape vine to the right, and squat. Squat lower ladies…” then I feel like I have to.

If I don’t she might single me out as the weak and feeble one, and make me run laps round the studio. And the nightmares of gym lessons at school return – Always the aspiring athlete!

So last night it was the turn of the aerobics class. And no – it was nothing like an Eric Prydz video.

 There was a lot more sweat and less flesh on show.

The problem with the exercise studios (apart from the squeaky floorboards, lack of ventilation and the wall length mirror), is that they have clocks. So for the unfit people in the room, watching the time move slowly is torture, more torturous than squats and crunches and looking at your glowing red and soggy reflection.

I try and kid myself that I am one of those fitness goddesses … then I catch myself in the mirror. Oh dear god!

I realised how totally uncoordinated I am since finishing dance lessons. My ability to watch and copy has disappeared. My feet go one way, I go the other, I’m four steps behind every one else and just as I get the hang of a routine, it changes. How the women at the front remain perfectly in time, without breaking a sweat or going red in the face is a miracle. If someone was to look at the class, they would see all the perfect people at the front, with their perfect moves, and then it falls apart the nearer to the back you get.

By the end of the class, I was at the back with the geriatrics.  And at least they were keeping time.

Stretching after these classes is always such a great feeling. It makes all the pain and aching so much better. And it’s a great chance to breathe. Something which I am convinced that I forget to do in the class.

So we finish up the class looking like we’ve been swimming and a grab a yoga mat. As soon as I lay on it I could feel the full body imprint being transferred. Mmm, yum!

And then Miss USA and I got the uncontrollable giggles in a room full of silent people and heavy breathing people, everyone concentrating on pulling the muscles out. It’s hard to pull out a stretch when every part of you is dripping. Sweaty skin is not very good for holding on to. How we were meant to lie on our backs with one leg in the air and pull it gently towards us when our hands were just sliding down our shins, I will never know. But no one else seemed to struggle. Except Miss Hendo, who rather than sweaty shins, had clammy hands. No grip there either apparently.

Anyway, I drank 2 litres of squash and had the remnants of the days make up dripping down my face. In my post exercise delirium, just as the endorphins kicked in – I agreed to go again next week. And some how managed to sign myself up for legs bums and tums on Thursday.

N.B I

To my disgust, I managed to spend £380 yesterday without even being present. Brian went to the garage. Even less money for coffee and shoes this month, especially as my insurance is now the same as teenage boy’s. Very unimpressed

N.B II

Yesterday, Gatwick air traffic control centre was struck by lightning, causing ridiculous train delays. Yes that’s right, the air traffic control centre was affected…And I thought “leaves on the line” was a bad excuse. Thank you Carrie for letting the world know that our train network doesn’t function in thunderstorms.

...And then I realised I had a friend

Shall we just for one moment consider this word - friend.
It's a very lovely little word but means so much and when someone calls you a friend (provided you like them) its actually quite touching.
And I have just found myself with another one.

My beauty therapist.
Its not surprising really. One's beauty therapist is a very trusted person, and someone who you quite look forward to seeing. Even if it is just because she will restore that wonderful smoothness to your legs by ripping all the hairs out.
I like seeing my friends, they make me feel calm when I'm stressed, they know lots of things about me and they make me laugh... a lot.
She does the same. Its amazing what secrets you share to a woman you only see every four weeks.

Admittedly there is quite a lot of pain. Honestly, I always tell other people it doesn't hurt ... that's a mini white lie (bang, there goes my trusting trait, sorry friends) It does hurt a little bit - sometimes quite a lot. BUT, if your therapist (your friend) is actually a good therapist (friend) then she will never intentionally inflict pain on you. Unless of course you upset her - which I'm sure is quite like your normal, non-beautician friends.

My BT (Yes, I shall now use this ultra trendy acronym, I hope it isn't also shared with some other adverse meaning) is fantastic. I feel instantly calm when I walk through the little door that goes ping to announce my arrival. And the smell of expensive and luxurious products makes me feel happy. ( I still can't afford these yet, but never mind)  I don't even mind the hot wax. I accept that it's part of the treatment... that's how relaxed I am. Who ever thought it was a good idea?
(I'm guessing maybe it was a bloke. Or an accidental discovery by a prehistoric ape-woman)

I hear all about her life, her little boy and the trivial events of daily life. And she gets to hear me off-load about my job, and tell her all about my adventures of the past couple of weeks.
Today I found out that her Rottweiler is bathed with Tigi/bedhead shampoo. Hilarious. For the record this is a very nice shampoo brand for ... humans. Apparently they make a special dog shampoo too. This very butch (male) pooch is regularly bathed in strawberry scented shampoos. I laughed so much that I forgot I was having hot waxed dripped on my legs.

She also told me, and this I cannot quite believe, in fact I am quite shocked and impressed. This weekend her husband suggested that they go shopping.  Yes, you read this (and I heard it) correctly, HE suggested the shopping trip. She tried on a beautiful pair of cream shoes in John Lewis (who are never knowingly undersold). According to my BT, these shoes were perfect. I do not doubt this, especially when you consider the £150 price tag. She hadn't noticed this lovely tag and removed them from her feet and gave them back to the shop assistant. At which point her husband (who never spends money) said "Go on, I'll treat you".
Another very impressive trait. Lots of brownie points for the BT hubby.

But she point blank refused!!!
Crazy woman.
 Had she been on her own, my BT admitted she probably would have bought them, but she couldn't bring herself to let her husband to purchase them. He even took her to the desk to pay, and she still said no. I'm impressed. I think she's a bit of a wally, but I am impressed. She had her realistic head on that day, and if they had been any other colour but cream they would have gone home with her. But cream shoes are destined for a lifetime spent in their box at the back of the wardrobe with a polaroid to remind you what your box contains. I have a pair - minus the polaroid. (I'll agree that it's a great organisational tool but I don't have a polaroid camera.)

I told her that I thought he was employing some sort of reverse psychology. She nodded and then said "yes, but..." ......Guess what? He offered to buy a Fiorelli bag instead.
I am shocked by this complete ignorance of the male stereotype. Congratulations BT hubby. You deserve an award. Unless of course it was some sort of backward ploy in which case, well done on fooling your missus! She's been telling all her clients about you and now with your collection of brownie points, when you ask hog the remote and watch the sport - then of course she will say yes!

My stomach muscles hurt just as much as my legs did, just from laughing. The only thing that would make my lovely little salon experiences even better would be a cappuccino/ latte or espresso depending on my caffeine need.
Except that in hindsight, coffee, hot wax and laughing lots would probably not be such a great combination.
Perhaps I could drink it out of a flask through a straw.
I'll suggest it to my friend in four weeks time.

...And then it was time to say goodbye

Waking up at 6am on a Sunday is never fantastic. It's even less exciting when you know that you have to say goodbye to a sister who will be missed.

Heathrow's Terminal 4 was packed full of people off on holiday and saying goodbye to loved ones. Unfortunately we were the latter. My little sister left for the grand old US of A this morning. A 10am flight. A miserable queue at check-in and a cup of coffee to the delay the goodbye. Even with the week of preparation I've had (she found out she was leaving last weekend), and a sobering coffee I still could not help but shed a few (aka quite a lot) of tears as she disappeared through security into the departure lounge, where only those with a boarding pass may enter. How I shall miss her mischievous grin and contagious laugh.

I had already cried twice by the point that her bouncing blonde hair disappeared without even a hesitant look back. First at a young couple, perhaps the same age as Frank and I, hugging and sobbing. He was leaving. And she, well she was beside herself. However, she managed to master the art of the beautiful cry. You know the  one where the tears fall daintily down your cheeks, and leave mascara perfectly intact? I'm not sure whether I was crying because it was sad to watch (and I'm an emotional person) or whether it was through jealousy at the perfect soggy face?

Second, was a Daddy saying goodbye to his two little and beautiful girls hugging their Daddy's knees as he bent down to say goodbye, while Mummy stood next to them smiling fondly and holding back the ever impending tears. And what with today being Father's Day, I just fell apart. What a soppy cow.

Airports are very sad places when you're not the one jetting off... Unless of course you're stood along the security barrier in Arrivals, when secretly everyone is re-enacting the closing sequence of 'Love Actually'. Subconsciously you know that you do it, unless of course you have not yet seen the film... in which case, where have you been every Christmas?

I wish my little sister a fantastic three months. (Secretly I am very jealous, though I am sure she know's this really) In hindsight it's pretty wasted on here, because she'll be so busy teaching small American children how to compete at Wimbledon (she's a tennis coach) that she won't have the chance to read this and by the time she does she'll almost definitely be at home anyway. Never mind - the sentiment is there.

On a more trivial note, I have also said goodbye to a productive shopping trip. Yesterday, I ventured into the city to spend some lovely birthday money. Its always fantastic spending this because you cannot feel guilty. It was a gift. Do with it what you will.

Miss USA and Miss Hendo accompanied me on this little trip. I was stupidly excited. The girls bought me an Office voucher to spend graciously.

For those that don't know me or have never spent a moment in my company, aside from buying a year's supply of Starbucks/ Cafe Nero/ Costa/ Pret a Manger - this gift was perfect. It had been thoughtfully chosen so that I could purchase a pair of beautiful shoes that I had been coveting for weeks. In fact... perhaps months. Yet, I had never tried them on. I knew that if I did I would want to buy them. I refrained. 

Impressive.

But yesterday, yesterday was the day to allow my feet to meet the shoes. To describe them makes them sound awful. But they were earthy coloured strappy high heels with a miniature peacock feathers and beading down the front. Not at all discreet. But very pretty.

And they looked awful. It transpires that my feet do not appreciate peep toe shoes. 

I tried on every other pair of shoes, and purchased none.

And this afternoon I said goodbye to the two items I did buy because somehow they looked a little less fabulous than they had in the changing room. And the image you concoct when you mentally add accessories and shoes to complete the outfit, never matches the reality. And it just looks awful.

So my shopping treatment was less than fruitful to say the least. I'm adamant that somehow the high street stores know when you don't have money to spend. They put all the beautiful things on display to tempt you into spending non-existent pennies. Yet when the pennies are bursting out of your purse, you only ever see things you would never ever want to add to the ever expanding wardrobe.

This theory is exempt from designer retailers. These beautiful stores are always cruelly tempting me, beckoning me into their depths with beautiful fabrics and patterns. Somehow ( and I haven't worked this out yet) my inner-sensible person stops me from entering and blowing inexplicable amounts of money and imprinting the credit card statement with figures that would hurt me.

So although I said goodbye to my little sister which I never wanted to do, I didn't spend a penny which I was desperate to do.

How cruel life can be. But like they say "there are plenty more fish in the sea"... I'm pretty sure this relates to men/women after a break up, but in this case it is worthy of the shoe hunt.

...And then there was the non-milestone birthday.

And so, it was on this weekend of mixed weather fronts that I turned the insignificant twenty-two. Gone are the days of the big parties with all those friends and family (who you rarely ever see) and roll on the birthday evenings in the pub.

These are the kinds of evenings that you know will end up abanding your car in the carpark for the night, and you resolve yourselves to commence an evening of visits to the bar and an ever growing collection of empty glasses. The heavy rain had passed, finally. I apologise to anyone who had weather permitting plans that were ruined by precipitation - I should have publicly announced that June 10th never passes without a rain storm of sorts.

Frank, Miss Hendo, Miss USA and my little fashionista sister (who made the trip down from Birmingham) joined me on my birthday and saved me from the shame of lonesome drinking. We drank a lot of gin/southern comfort/beer/vodka cranberry juice. And it was quite a lot.Too much some might say, but we wouldn't agree I'm sure. Much of the evening was spent laughing ( my cheeks were very sore on saturday morning) and teaching my friends how to play 'FIVES' - a 'game' that is, oh so quintessentially Exeter. Used to determine who will be making the tea, rides shotgun, takes out the rubbish, or just a drinking game played by every sport team/department on campus. It was surprising how quick it was picked up. Well done ladies. Question is, do we still remember how to play it? Or did the rules disappear with the onset of a hangover?

Papa Dodd played the role of 'ever-obliging cabbie' and picked up a rowdy group of friends. Very much appreciated Papa!
Upon returning home I realised the full scale of my intoxication and forced myself (and Frank) to drink 3 pints of Robinsons orange squash. I also took two painkillers, which is why I was able to get up bright and early on saturday morning without any struggle. I also managed to tie up my trainers, collect the pooch from her cosy warm bed and run back to the pub to collect my car before Family Dodd (minus Mumma Dodd - who is currently sunning herself in Cyprus) packed themselves and a picnic into the car and journeyed to Sandown Races for a sunny day of gambling.
Mr Quiche, my unofficial Godfather (on account of not being religious) also joined us for a glorious day. How many people won pennies? Well I am sure that plenty of people went home with pockets bulging, however we (like the majority of other racegoers) had very light pockets. Frank backed many losers, and lost many pennies, then won it all back, was £2.50 up and then lost it on the last race. Oh well, such is the unpredictable nature of odds and horses. Sometimes you just shouldn't trust either, and pick the name instead - oh "Mr Rainbow" if only you'd run a little faster.

And so the evening began with a fantastic Irish band playing on an outdoor stage. Now, everyone knows that Irish music makes you want to dance and jig and move those little feet. Apparently the English by generalisation are not aware of this musical understanding. Not only was there a 5 metre perimeter between the stage and the audience but no one was moving. (Not even any foot tapping.) No one that is, until Frank grabbed me by the hand and pulled me out into the void. Originally, he 'wooed' me with his dancing, so I was no stranger to 'the moves'. But a year ago it was in a club full of very drunk students dancing wildly to 'Summer of  69'. This was a little different. We had an audience. Had a drunk a combination of wine and very nice Champagne, but this did not stop my overwhelming sense of self-awareness. Not actually a lover of the spotlight apparently, as it turns out.
I am so grateful for my decision to wear 'posh' sandals rather than towering heels. I was able to control my two left feet, while blushing madly and avoided my bottom meeting the concrete. Frank did have hold of me, so I don't think I would have slipped anyway.

Well, until the heavens opened and everyone was soaked. Including the unfortunate lady who had chosen to wear a slightly too large bandeau dress and experienced a fashion mishap. It goes without saying that the gentlemen in the audience were more than appreciative of the increased amount of body that was exposed. They were of course, ignoring the glares of their wives/girlfriends/female best friends who have secretly been harbouring feelings for them for years.

We left, not because we were soggy (I'll never understand how to achieve the alluring 'caught in the rain' look), but because we had to keep our dinner reservations. But as we left the now dancing crowd, enjoying both music and rain, the band struck up a rendition of 'Galway Girl'.
This song will now forever remind me of my 22nd Birthday at the races, getting soaked to the bone dancing with Frank and has created an unexplainable desire to go to Ireland, drink Guiness in a tavern, and jig until my little feet can't dance anymore.

... And then I learnt a valuable lesson

Don't run before you can walk. I'm sure this is probably related to the phrase "Don't bite off more than you can chew" I am also sure that in both cases we aren't literally talking about running and eating. But in this case we are. Trying to run after 3 weeks of no exercise, save for walking to my car and round London a bit, is a bad idea. Not for health reasons or damaging unused muscle, but just to protect your pride. There is nothing worse than attempting to make a day less strenuous by beating it in to the road- and then being unable to beat it at all. I walked most of my route. And not even fast enough for my stressed out body to justify sweating. Even though I burnt minus calories, I piled my plate high with food. (Of the homecooked variety, morrocan chicken actaully) But it was so good I ate too much too quickley, I feel like I forgot to chew and now I am nursing a food baby rather than aching muscles. What a tuesday eh?

....And then I remembered...

...Ah yes, I have a blog!

My sincerest apololgies dear readers for abandoning you for what seems longer than two weeks - in fact it probably is. But so much has occured and in all my excitement I have been too busy living it all to sit at my trusty computer to relate it all. But here goes...

First there was a three day training course in London town. The excitement of a fully expensed hotel in Bloomsbury Square. The novelty of which quickley rubs off when you realise that you aren't really the best company for yourself. I spent an embarassingly long time flicking on all the light switches until I realised the power was turned on by a room key shaped slot in the wall. I had issues with the very confusing shower, so much so that it almost came to a bath over the sink until I decided enough was enough, swallowed my pride and called the front desk. I also learnt how not to dine alone. Breakfast etiquette in hotels requires the morning paper or some sort of reading material ( not a tabloid paper or gossip magazine) and you do not under any circumstances face the other single diners in the room. It makes the nervous, and they fidget. According to "A single-diners breakfast etiquette in hotels", you all face the same way on individual tables, and never should you greet a fellow diner. It shocks them and the spill their tea or drop their toast in the beans leaving an impressive Expressionist art pattern on their crisp white shirts. Even though I had observed these unwritten rules, I managed to forget them in my sleep and relive my embarassment on both mornings. And the unbelievably indiscreet person who does not belong in the hotel? The one who knocks cutlery off tables and clinks the cup to the saucer too loud? The one who everyone looks at and cringes? ... that was me.

Upon returning home and after the shame in realising that I was clearly not quite the well poised individual I had originally thought had subsided, I was struck down with misbehaving kidneys. Oh the pain, the tears, the painkillers and magical antibiotics.

This was followed by a delightfully surprising premature (by a week) celebratory birthday trip to London town with Frank. The city may have been the same but this little person has never been wined and dined so well. Nor has she stayed in such a beautiful hotel (it had a grand staircase with plushy carpet, and I am not ashamed to admit that I might've, on more than one occassion, pretended I was a Princess. You just have to in these situations) It didn't matter that I couldn't put my cup down quietly or butter my toast delicately, because I had Frank with me. And I didn't care if I looked like a fool. Lets face it trips are always more entertaining when its pleasure not business.
Frank is a superstar. My purse didn't leave my handbag once, except for taking out my oyster card and paying for some really cold and exciting ice cream in Leicester Square. Of course purchasing ice cream was comparitively inexpenisive for Frank, who's wallet is considerably lighter than before he met me.We had none of this, "Lets explore the backstreets" business. We were proud to be unseasoned vistors. Proud to use the concierge service to ask for directions. Frank and I were tourists by day and tourists  who explored a little off the beaten track by night. It was fantastic. For once I didnt mind gawking at my tube map on the underground or walking slowly to annoy the Suits.
And to top off my delightful bank holiday weekend? A hot air balloon flight of course. The great thing about the flight was that it prolonged that amazing view you get as you take off on a plane before you disappear into the clouds. Obviously it wasn't through a tiny square window and there was no temporary take-off face lift either. It was the calm and quiet, until we landed with a small bump on a golf course and interrupted a game. Sorry chaps!

I returned home for two days, showed my face in the office, worked through an insane amount of emails and then made my routine trip to Ipswich on friday night. The duration of this journey I would rather not discuss, however for the sake of additional comment and questions - I spent a less than desirable amount of time in  incredibly long and solid queues on the M25 (I even turned Brian off and got out for a stretch. It was a carpark in the glorious sunshine) and was stuck behind all manner of idiots with an innate inability to drive and a complete misunderstanding of motorway etiquette.
So here is a polite notice to some of those drivers in particular -
Dear M25/ Friday night/ half term drivers,
When someone is stuck up your rear end in the middle lane and clearly wants to get past, and it is illegal to undertake, would you please use your iniative and move right on over. Now.
Thankyou

Of course, this comment is now over and shall never be mentioned again. Provided they all learn.


Frank and I, once we'd recovered from the aftermath of a Friday night cocktail party, ventured into Ipswich on a little shopping spree. Now I say 'spree'... it wasn't.  I gave up on my quest for high heeled tan sandals after about ten minutes ( I don't know what's happened to me, maybe the kidneys have had a life changing affect). Frank bought a pair of chinos.
Of the pair of us, it is quite obvious that I am the impulse buyer. To be honest, I think it should be a recognised medical condition. There have been many times when I have returned home laden with bags and a battered bank account only to find that months later these "had-to-have" purchase hang tagged and unworn in my wardrobe. But the receipts are missing. Covenient.

However Frank made the mammoth of all impulse purchases. Well maybe not the most mammoth, because it wasn't a supercar or a yacht, but an impressive impulse nonetheless.
We visited a food retailer whose corporate branding "Every little helps" suggests that even if dying from starvation, their value ketchup might save me from the white light at the end of the tunnel. Or maybe that saving 3p on a tin of beans will help those pennies in your bank account grow.

We went in for beer. Had we left with only beer then Frank's pockets might be a little heavier. But we didn't. We got sidetracked. Frank decided to fill little Brian with  a very large box containing a brand new 40" widescreen telly. And a new DVD player. Shower soap and three crates of beer.
Quite possibly  the most random of shopping baskets.

Upon returning to the homestead, I allowed Frank to begin assembling and playing with his new toy. I cooked dinner. Oh Germaine Greer would be proud.
Frank developed a man crush. His new gadget fed him sports scores. Showed him other gadgets he would definitely need. Allowed him to surf the internet. Watch week old programmes on iPlayer. But it didn't fetch ice cold beer from the fridge. I did this. And poured it.

Frank, I now know how you feel when I buy a beautiful new pair of shoes, which I haven't done for quite some time but I feel that in order to fill the temporary boyfriend shaped void in my life I will need to fill it with a small pair of shoe-shaped purchases.

N.B This man crush will be over next week, once the boys have gawped at the telly and drunk all the beer. Once Frank realises that he can't have a conversation with an intellectual programme he shall come back to me... I shall welcome him back with open arms and new shoes on my feet.

...And then there was a bizarre weekend.

Contrary to the belief of one ...fruit loop (let's at least be kind about the man who is now missing) I think I'm still walking the earth. I'm pretty sure nothing has changed and that I am neither in heaven or hell, but carrying on with my daily routine - currently sat on another train bound for london waterloo full of commuters, suited and booted. It does appear women are in the minority. Unless of course there is now a specially allocated carriage for those with a different chromosome pairing. After the weekend of bizarreness I should not be surprised. I made the routine journey to Frank's this weekend, detouring via the town of Kings, obviously more commonly known as Kingston to collect a Miss BBL and her charming chap, the guitarist for the band previously named "hang on, look john". I will not leak their new identity unlike the Scottish Herald, in the newest twist in the tale of the philandering footballer. I do find it slightly odd that having a few more pennies that standard Joe buys you anonymity for being a cheat...at least until Twitterers outed this bloke! So Miss BBL, Mr Guitar and myself boarded Brian for the last 2hour leg of the trip. Minutes after leaving the built up suburbs of Kingston, we drove past a sheep field. The contents of which, as the name alludes, was sheep. And plenty of them. But all standing and facing the same way. Their subject of curiosity was a solitary Llama. This anomaly was stood, quite regally in the centre of the field, with a small group of sheepish followers all keen to gawp at the overgrown goat. I will now admit, to you my readers, that the first time I passed Llamas in a field, I was not much younger than I am now and asked Papa Dodd 'why do those goats have such long necks?' This of course, was not my finest hour. After the llama/sheep surprise the drive was quite uneventful. Arrived with Frank and dutifully wandered to the pub. It was here that I, even though in hindsight I'm sure I knew it already, consumed wine, gin and tonic, and a shot of a sambuca. These do not mix well when the only item of food eaten since lunch was an oreo mcflurry. A choice of 'dessert' I shall never make again, solely for the fact they (the wonderful staff of the golden arches restaurant chain) never provided enough biscuit-y goodness for the quantity of ice-cream. Saturday passed without event, aside from a country drive to a riverside pub and the crass-rewriting of a popular song from yester-year. The single of which, Frank confessed to owning. For the sake of his reputation I will not divulge the details to my hoards of online readers/followers. (By the way, thank you so much for joining me and my regular warblings!) Mr Furry joined us later the same afternoon for some deckchair delight, and duck feeding by the local lake. Frank"s newly purchased garden furniture would not have been out of place on Brighton beach, but the traditonal green and white stripes and folding mechanics of these wooden seats looked quite ridiculous round a lake with a the ducks. However they were so comfortable that any sarcastic comments and laughter were quickley withdrawn. The sunshine did of course scorch my milk-bottle glow. Note to self: always wear spf30... Or a bin liner! It all seemed to be too much of a good day for the world to end, what with the merriment, free flowing fosters and a large quantity of cocktail sausages and other picnic-y snack foods. Over a dinner table filled with a hearty lasagne (created by yours truely) we played games. No there was no power cut, removing access to telvision and music. No we had not run out of conversation and yes, there was more alcohol. The ability of Mr Guitar and Mr Furry to correctly predict answers to trivia cards was impressive. Some might say a superpower. Others might suggest it marked the end of the world. To Frank and I, it was bizarre. Later we found it was better known as 'cheating'. A wonderful game of 'codswallop' ensued, with an assortment of weird and wonderful words from the English language. My favourite? Gallymoofray - a dish created with leftovers. Sounds more upper class than bubble and squeak! Frank ran 10 miles on sunday. For fun. No sponsorship involved, just fame and recognition. He completed in an hour and 20 minutes. Frank if this is incorrect I apologise for my lie. The strangest thing about this escapade, was that he neither looked or smelt like he had run a hefty 10 miles across country. If that'd had been me... Well it wouldn't have been, but if my some miracle it had been, I would have been unable to move/speak/think and probably breathe. Congratulations Frank and mini-Frank for your impressive athletic abilities. And thank you to the fruit loop who predicted the end of the world, but actually created a delightful weekend for me. I will credit him for this rather than the killing of millions, just so he can feel a sense of achievement- even if his prediction was totally bizarre!

...And then a small part of my brain had a genius idea.

After failing to launch out of bed this morning for a pre-work run, I felt like I had failed myself. I was grouchy, grumpy and had a very sore head.
We sorted the head pain but the grumpiness needed something else.

Knowing that I probably wouldn't even attempt to run after work, I - or rather a small and usually insignificant part of my brain that usually wouldn't be listened to, decided to book myself into a group exercise session at the strange building that I used to attend so regularly. The gym.

By booking on a course, you immediatley have to attend. Otherwise there's a charge. I have no idea what this charge is, but when you have a complimentary membership any charge is bad.
So I decided that I would try something new.
"You need to feel the burn" I thought to myself, " Its only real exercise if you sweat and ache." So I listened to my inner being and crossed Pilates off. As pleasant as it is, it's a de-stresser and a toner (if you do it right). Not a full on"I've just been to the gym and worked really hard" kind of work out. My eyes scanned the timetable quickley and surreptiously, after all I was sat at my desk and supposed to be calling people to spend money. I selected my course of choice and made the all important phone call.

"I'd like to book into the Boxercise course" might be that magical phrase I'll probably wish I never uttered. Ask me on Friday (oh, Friday) when I am unable to lift my arms or walk.
It wasn't until Miss Hendo and I arrived outside the sports hall (I should've know it would never be like aerobics when they mention 'Sports Hall') that I began to panic.
We looked through the open (but not so welcoming door) and behold - there were many men. Never a good sign, they have more stamina and are stronger. And a lot of strange equipment.
That's right my friends, boxing gloves, punch bags, skipping ropes and lots of sponge mats. I'm glad Miss Hendo decided to come too, otherwise I'm pretty sure I would have dipped my head, backed away and pretend I was in the wrong place.

Now I don't quite know what I thought Boxercise was, but it certainly wasn't this room here. Miss Hendo and I walked in. We were committed. This little 'adventure' was not going to undermine our desire for summer fitness.
Well, I would say I was fairly fit. Not much stamina, but I can exercise happily. But this class?
I nearly died in the warm up. Problem with group exercise is that you have to keep the pace. If you slack, everyone looks at you and the shame is unbearable. And there was no way this testosterone filled room would make me feel weak.
I put on my acting face, tried not to sweat/collapse and kept going.

I will never know how I managed to get through 60 minute circuit training or how on earth I learned to put on boxing gloves and punch a bag, but apparently it comes naturally. I will confess, I did picture myself on set for 'The Fighter' with Mark Wahlberg. And I was definitely kicking his ass. And not soaking my clothes in the process. I had the whole 'perfect work out' look going on - just like the girls on those patronising exercise videos that make you kid yourself that you can have their body by prancing about in your living room.

I am sure I am not alone in thinking that all that fighting and boxing stuff looks easy. I used to think high kicks were a doddle (back in my dancing days) but now? This person is going to be very sore.

The only part that won't be is my pride. I finished the whole session. Did every activity... I modified the sit-ups ( for some reason I can't pull myself up...stupid abs) and I definitely didn't sprint for a full minute... can anyone? But Miss Hendo and I made it through.

It maybe the post exercise endorphines and the fact that at the moment I don't feel any pain...but we're off again next week. And dragging Miss USA with us.

...And then there was a small miracle.

After not running in weeks, the frustration of a terrible Monday, provided the fuel to run 3 miles.
Hoo-rah.
She's back in the game.
A lot of aching going on right now, and a small blister on my toe. But a great sense of pride.

Fluke? Maybe. Will I go again? Depends if the running gear is fresh and smelling sweet within the week.

Any bets on how long the fitness regime lasts this time?

...And then I was on a slow train bound for London Victoria

And so after a labourious week I am sat on a train. With a badly packed over night bag. I have a toothbrush, make up bag, LBD and two pairs of skyscraper heels. Of course its perfectly packed for a night out with Charlotte and Carrie. The only things missing are the painkillers! This night out has been planned for weeks. Not meticulously, just booked in diary. Now that the three of us are working women, its not quite so easy to spontaneously meet in a bar. Especially when one of the three (the one on the train) doesn't live in the city, but out on the coast. Where not a lot happens. Each time I pay a visit to the smoke I am reminded of two things: 1) How much I want to live there. 2) How much I don't want to live there. Funnily enough I still can't make up my mind. Maybe after a few cosmopolitans, woo woo's and harvey wallbangers I'll have decided which side of the fence I sit on.

...And then we perused, purchased and pranced.

I may not be able to remember the last time I went running, however I have experienced some extreme physical exercise (I should not sail if it hurts this much). And I may be a long way off payday however it was definitely to time to treat my aching self to some retail therapy. Except I feel that I am even more tired now. Miss USA advised this would the result of "...hope and expectation rising and falling very quickley...", the recovery period knocks it out of you. I am emotionally drained.

Miss Hendo and I escorted (the soon-to-be birthday girl) Miss USA on a sunday afternoon shopping trip. It was delightful. We have scoured the shops and avoided the usual weekend crowds by shopping in blazing sunshine(and intermittent rainstorms). It appears the people with sense spent the last day of their weekend in a beer garden or walking on the beach. But they would have got wet.

After removing much of my clothing in yesterday's over zealous clear-out, today was the time to replace it. And Miss USA wanted friendly advice and guidance on many different purchases. (I must say, its quite a strange feeling when you help to spend someone else's money - no counting the pennies flying out your account) Miss USA has some lovely new additions to her growing wardrobe. In fact, I think aside from shoes and a handbag, which are of course the finishing touches, she walked out of the very warm shopping centre with an array of new outfits.

Miss Hendo's crowning moment was not only locating but also purchasing 'The Skirt'. We call it 'The Skirt' because that it is precisely what this fantastic creation is. Miss Hendo has had a watchful eye on the stock of a particular swedish store (not Ikea) since previewing this particular item in a supplement to a recent edition of Vogue. The scream of delight (and I use 'scream' because it was) announced the arrival of this tulle-being into our lives.
Ever since I saw the Chloe design in the Spring/Summer 2011 edition of Vogue and Elle, I have craved the flowing ballerina-esque layers with a simple ribbon edge waistband. The RRP of that skirt isn't even worth discussing... especially when this wonderful swedish store made a copy-cat for a fraction, and I mean a tiny fraction, of the price. Thanks be to the clothing God's who fill our lives with materialistic entities.

I really do hope that Miss Hendo doesn't mind that each of us left the store with the last three of these skirts - you can't play the "I'll come back for it later card" with this store, the turnover of stock is very impressive.

In the changing rooms, we lost ourselves in fashion advice/tips and parading about in numerous outfits - each with a SATC style glamour. I like to think the queue of impatient women forming outside enjoyed our 'oohing' and 'ahhing', our prancing around. I'd like to think that we filled their afternoon with wonderful advice and ideas for their wardrobes - however I believe the reality might've been a little different judging by the huffs, puffs and looks of disgust as we left.
It is important to be completely satisified with your items before your purchase them. If that means spending thirty minutes in the changing room, then it means spending 30 minutes in the changing room - it means the clothes are perfect, you've created stunning ensembles and saved yourself petrol and parking charges when driving all the way back to return them later.
As a rule - this shopping tactic shouldn't be employed when shopping with boyfriends/husbands/fathers/small children. They will become bored and restless and want the football/sleep/all their money back/bag of sweets to make up for the torture endured. Your gay best friend is exempt from this rule.

The only downside to today's trip is that I am still searching for the illusive high heeled tan sandals. I don't want them too chunky, too strappy, too dark or too light. The musn't be too high and under no circumstances are they to be flat, this nulifies the point of them being heeled. They must be comfy as I intend to live in them this summer and there is no way I am wearing a wedge.
I have a personal vendentta with wedged footwear. I shall not go into it. Just be warned, never purchase a pair of wedges for me - even if your intentions are good. Thank you. And if you weren't intending to, then forget I said anything.
As you can see the criteria for these shoes is vast, and as of yet - I'm still hunting. I've now resorted to browsing the internet. A deadly habit. You end up getting the bank card out for things you never really wanted and before you can stop yourself the 'thank you for purchasing with us today' pop up message appears. I have avoided this so far this evening. My purse is downstairs.

Miss Hendo seemed entirely content today - until misplacing her bank card. After a panic, the steps were retraced and it was found in the shop that by name should only sell Tops. Although Miss USA and I are searching for the perfect footwear, Miss USA is plagued by a consuming hunt for the perfect tan handbag. A search that I know from experience can take months. It is not pleasant.

The fuel of choice for today's mammoth trip(this clearly means a long shopping trip and not a trip with a mammoth, that would just be silly)? A hearty plate of srambled eggs on toast and a strong coffee- a breakfast choice that I often forget I like. Of course the coffee is always appreciated regardless of accompianment. Followed by a frappucino (one needs large amounts of caffeine to prevent retail exhaustion). Liquid refreshment of choice when strolling? A chilled bottle of sparkling mineral water, all the fizz of fizzy drinks without the sugar. Good for your teeth and good for you - what other drink pleases the GP and Dentist?

My only dilemna now is which combination of new and old items do I wear to the Office tomorrow?
It frustates me that Carrie Bradshaw makes it all look so easy, and her wardrobe is twice the size of mine.

...And then I woke up with nothing to do.

After I'd done the standard hairwash which was surprisingly difficult as a result of the physical exertion of yesterday's sailing shenanigans, dressed and made a cuppa - I realised that for the first time in a long time I had nothing to do.

So I found a hammer and screw driver from the garage and set about on those DIY tasks that needed to be done in my room. Now, I don't mean putting up shelving or building flat pack furniture from Ikea (you know the kind where even when you follow the instructions word for word or picture by picture, you STILL end up with the spare screw? My Billy Bookcase is still standing though)
The extent of my DIY was screwing a hook into the wall to hang my hairdryer on and I attempted to screw a set of hooks for other 'hanging' things.  It's not straight, and I'm pretty sure that it will probably pull out of the wall when it has too much weight on it. I didn't use those red plug things that I'm pretty sure are needed.
But , that's what happens when you badger the house owners/parents for help and they forget.
So if my stud walls collapse in the night, I can blame them.

Besides, I felt like I accomplished an impressive achievement.

I surveyed my room for other tasks. I chose one that I thought would be the most interesting. With the rain falling heavily outside, I decided to spring clean.
I have been ruthless.
Anything unworn in the last year was sorted into two catagories - 1) the swap bag 2)the dump.
You have to set the time limit for a year rather than six months otherwise you'd end up chucking out the entire summer wardrobe. Then you would need to completely rebuild - which in this case, might not be such a bad idea if it weren't for the complete and utter lack of funds. I think I was naive to think that I would one day be able to fritter my pennies away.
I now have drawers that shut and wardrobe with hanging space. The shoe boxes are still overflowing though - I couldn't bring myself to touch them. They can't help being the most expensive items.
The swap bag was unknown to me until my final year of Uni, when Family Longbrook (aside from Mr Furry) showed me how to renovate my wardrobe with some simple 'swapsies'.
On these occasions I merely collected their discarded, unwanted and often unworn clothing rather than donating my own. So now is my opportunity to give. I don't know if it will be gratefully received...

 But good friends are great liars and will give my clothes a wonderful new wardrobe to fester in. I suppose I might see them in the next swap bag.

...And then I was a seafearing wench.

And so it was on this balmy evening, that I immerged from the sailing club dressed in my finery.
Borrowed from my youngest Dodd sibling, I looked like a seal.
Wetsuits were never meant to be the most flattering of outfits, though I had hoped that it may be possible to look less like a vacuum packed sausage. Apparently not.

Papa Dodd had been busy prepping 'Cloud Nine' (for the record we didn't choose this name, the boat came with it, and it's bad luck to change it - according to maritime folklore). Our sails were ready, the ropes and pulleys and stuff were all ready too.
These ropes and pulleys and stuff all have proper names, however I still haven't learnt them. I spend most weekends with Frank, so therefore I am exempt from joining the crew aboard our 16" Wayfarer. Except not this weekend.

One (of many) of my jobs as crew was to return our boat trailer back to its resting place while we were racing. Boat trailers are harder to manouvre than they look, and what with my apparent lack of skills for reversing Brian, the combination of this two wheeled contraption and myself was never going to produce perfect parking skills. I managed to hit one poor fellow sailor as I left the pontoon (for this, kind Sir, I apologise) I also nearly managed to run it off the edge and into the gloomy depths, and when parking it in our bay ... I could have been very close to gently nudging neighbouring boats and dinghies. However, they remained unscathed.

My secondary job, and the one I love the most because I feel like a seasoned sailor/yachtie... launching the boat. With Papa Dodd inside and ready to race, I have to take hold of the all important rope, push the boat away from the pontoon and 'jump' aboard. I nearly always panic that I will push it too far off and then misjudge the gap and fall in. Tonight this did not happen, but I am sure at some point, when I think I have perfected this 'move' ... I will immerge shamefaced from the depths of the Hamble river with seaweed and barnacles in my hair.

The essence to the term 'race', is beginning simultaneously from a start position, completing a course and the first person/team/boat/animal/insert other choice, to cross the predetermined finish line in the shortest amount of time is pronounced the winner. When on the water in boats, it is impossible to line up at the start as you would for a 100m sprint, so you all pootle about in the water. Practising pulling ropes and sliding all round the boat is great for 5 minutes, but then I got fidgety and was keen for the race to begin so that Papa Dodd and I could showcase our incredible skills and seamanship.

I believe 'Cloud Nine' is cursed. Obviously we shall blame the boat and not ourselves, but somehow we always manage to be one of the last boats to cross the start line. Always. So we begin the race at the back of the pack.
Our boat is one of the largest in this racing pool, and when in some cases that would be something to impress someone with, when racing little dinghies - you need something small and nippy. We are to racing as an elephant would be to ballet.

But, ever since it was drilled into me at school ( I shall never forget it) - it's not the winning, but the taking part that counts.
This may be true to the egg and spoon losers at the school sports day, but every once in a while it would be nice to come first.And I am sure this phrase was concocted by a smug winner just to comfort his/her upset second best competitor. Pah.

So after a 'hairy' hour and a half sailing around the mouth of the Hamble river in Southampton water, we finally crossed the finish line. Last.
A mere 15 minutes later than the previous boat.

We shall blame a tatical choice that perhaps Papa Dodd shouldn't have made. One may also blame my inability to pull ropes and slide round the boat quickley. I would like to blame my panic at nearly falling into the water head first... three times. (Apparently I don't learn).
The murky depths of these waters are not as inviting as the Mediterranean or Caribbean Seas, and a lot colder. I know this because my feet got wet.

My other favourite bit of acting as second mate to Captain Dodd, is sailing back into 'port' - aka the pontoon and docking. Or whatever sailor-y term I'm meant to use. I have to stand on the 'hull' (oooh, get me!) and jump on to the floating deck, with a special rope in my hand and tie us up.
The first time I did this, I had shorts on (they were slightly too big). Sometimes shorts expand when wet, I hadn't realised this - stood up to jump ashore and found myself with my shorts round my ankles.
Now that I wear a wetsuit I don't have to worry, and Papa Dodd doesn't have to apologise to members of the sailing club on behalf on his daughter for 'mooning' the entire River.

When your Father is from a naval background, you are taught that there are many knots and ties to fasten rope. I have listened and humoured him, but never actually learnt. So I tie 'Dodd knots'. It is very difficult to undo these, and involves a lot of huffing and puffing.
Last time I was aboard the Dodd boat, I was instructed not to tie knots any more. So I jumped onto the pontoon and held the rope while Dad fetched the trailor. I looked like a windswept simpleton.

Within five minutes of us leaving the water, the sky turned black, the clouds rolled in, and the wind speeds were up at 50mph ( as I found out from the club weather station).
This is called a 'squaw'. And its pretty much like the Pirates of the Caribbean scene where the medallion around Keira Knightley's neck emits a pulse... remember? Well, there you go! Warsash was like that for all of 15 minutes.
The River was a raging torrent and the clouds curled over. And then, boom!

Flat as a millpond.
Like it never bloomin' happened.
Tell yer what, this weather stuff - bloody spooky.

I'm now sat in bed and we've got thunder, lightning and torrential rain. Love it. I don't have to clean Brian tomorrow.

I am nursing my bumps, bruises and very sore abs. My eyes are red from the salt water and my lips are tingling from the wind. I'm aching and very tired. I'm trying to decide whether or not I'm suited to a life on the high seas.

Perhaps I could dress like a yachtie without needing the skills to sail? And worse case scenario, if I wanted to purchase a boat to enjoy on delightful summer evenings I could buy one with an engine and no sails.

Then I wouldn't even need a seal suit.

...And then there was a wedding and another bank holiday weekend.

Congratulations to the new royal couple. I would like to admit (on the internet) that the beautiful service brought a little tear to my eye. And Kate? Bloody love that dress. No street party here at Frank's to watch it, but I did drink a lot of good old english tea in my pyjamas. Lovely. And now, because it is a bank holiday weekend and because you feel like you must do things on bank holidays, I am going on a bike ride with Frank. He has a small collection of two wheeled-transport so it doesn't matter that his broken bike (see earlier post) is still being fixed. No doubt I shall ache from chasing after my uber-fit chap. And will probably resign myself to the sofa later for a large glass of wine and a crappy film. Yup, this will happen. Take care in the sun, layer on the spf30. I will make sure Frank's ears don't burn. It might just be wind burn rather than skin damage!

...And then the blogger couldn't keep up

So here we are. A week on from when I was last sat at this laptop, and would you believe it? So much has happened.

The new job, post promotion, started on Monday. So I had to find my way around that... still feel like I've been stood reading the instructions to Ikea's most complicated bookcase, and I'm still totally clueless as to how the shelves, wooden pegs, swedish screws and crappy PVA glue fit together.

But then as is apparently the norm here, there were various nights of sociable beveraging on 'summer' evenings. Followed by a four day weekend in Essex county with Frank and his family.Where contrary to previous blogs about the ridiculousness of shorts in March/April, I swallowed my pride in fear of sunstroke and decided to bare those milky white pins that I call legs.

 In the middle of this a trip to the glorious home of English rugby with Mr Quiche - a journey across London that took me longer than my drive to Frank's, thank you kindly National Rail. This rugby/cider/curry binge was followed by another day in the sunshine at Frank's with his godson. (Who almost sailed high over the garden hedge a la hammer throw courtsey of Frank's brother Will.I.Am - no Cheryl Coles bessie mate!). I feel we must note, that even at this point in the sunfilled, short wearing weekend - my skin has not changed colour. There is no hint of bronze, nor tan line and even worst no slightly scorched bits. All this was quite worrying since my skin only ever turns various shades of pink under UVB rays...and it didnt even do that. Heatwave? What heatwave?

And all this was topped off with another garden party here at Chez Doddy, in the sunshine whilst (for the first time in a long time) drinking only soft drinks. Namely a brown tinged beverage that rhymes with poke-a-hole-ah!

So as you can see - quite a merry few days. And with another four day weekend on the way (we thank you very much Wills and Kate) I am sure it shall be much the same all over again, although perhaps without the Indian summer!

Finally, any bets on the which colour the Queen shall be sporting on Friday? I think it's about time the nation saw her in some leopard print.

..And then we awoke to another Monday Morning.

Except this Monday was quite unlike any other.

Rather unusually I was in a lot of pain. It was not in my head, and nor was it the result of an alcoholic binge or the side effects of going cold turkey from caffeine.

For a start I had muscles aching in my bottom that I never knew even existed. From a lengthy bike ride with Frank – a story we shall elaborate upon later, my friends.

 My ankles were a bit sore too. This ache was from a bloomin’ long run (with the pooch), that was unfortunately my idea (so I can’t even blame the pain on Frank) followed by a wonderful trek around a large shopping arena.

Thursday evening saw the arrival of a particular Mr Frank. And so, he was home with my charming and delightful family when I was able to deliver some excellent news relating to a specific job of mine... in essence it was so fantastic it felt rude not to open a bottle of bubbly. It was not of the champagne variety but was a superb bottle of Cava. This was followed by a compulsory visit to the local alcoholic house, where we were able to consume cool, refreshing and intoxicating beverages in the last of the Friday evening sun.

Miss Hendo and Miss USA joined us for a rowdy few hours, only to be accompanied by Papa Dodd himself, coupled with the Pooch. Half a traditional Irish beverage later, (consumed by PD and not myself) we made it home. I was already nursing the early stages of the post-drink sleeps. And so after eating my weight in a perfectly concocted lasagne ... I fell asleep.

Would someone please locate my other-self? I feel I am missing an essential part of my being... the part that lets me drink a lot and stay awake for hours. The student half. Perhaps you subconsciously hand this part over when you collect the expensive piece of paper that states we are wonderfully employable?

Keen to prove my newfound fitness to Frank, I forced him from the comfort of the pillow and made him run with me on Saturday morning. I’d already selected a route. A more picturesque place to run, and unfortunately about three miles longer.

Frank is fitter than me. He was fitter than me before I started my regime and because he continued to exercise at the same pace, he is still fitter than me. I stopped. Whined. Ran a bit. Then moaned some more. I wiped the sweat off that was pouring down my face (I am not a woman who merely glows when participating in cardiac activity, and I despise the women who do – darlin’ you aren’t working hard enough)

I announced on a number of occasions, when running up a slight incline, that I hated Frank.

I don’t really Frank, but exercise does funny things to me. I made it home, practically dead. With a dog who’s tongue could touch the floor. We’d been out for 40 minutes and I never thought I would walk again.

After refreshing hair wash and a covering of make-up I miraculously recovered as I happily declared that Frank and I were going shopping. Up until this point he had been blissfully unaware of this impending doom.

Doom for doom it was. The sun was shining. The afternoon was full of football, there was cold beer in the fridge but I forced him to escort me in spending lots of money I just don’t have.

I was searching for the perfect pair of chinos to wear elegantly with a pair of strapped tan high heeled sandals which would also accessorise a short floral print dress. None of which I own. And none of which I found. Emerging from yet another shop without a bag of goodies after 30 minutes of rummaging and 20 minutes of prancing around a fitting room, prompted Frank into a chorus of sighing and “What? We’re going into another one?”

In each shop we had to find a man seat, perch or corner in which to leave Frank with other unhappy males while I perused. It was in one of these corners that his interactive smart phone and only tool to combat utter boredom, died. He was not a happy Frank. He joined the hoardes of similarly bored looking men. I believe there may have been enough for a football team.

Ironic really, since that’s where they would rather have been.

Now a note to the architects of these fashion mecca’s. I feel you should spare a thought for the long-suffering men. Please build them a sports bar, in the centre of each fashion bubble, where they may relax in a testosterone fuelled environment. Or build them a five-a-side pitch so they may compete against other fashion widower’s and pass 6 hours without even realising.

I feel Frank would appreciate this more than watching me hand over my battered card to pay for yet another pair of shoes. However, he did not complain. And so he was, like a young child, rewarded with an ice-cream for behaving so well... and he even got to choose it himself.

To compensate for spending most of Saturday inside, I suggested (here was the mistake which ruined the muscles in my bottom)that we venture into the great outdoors and go on a bike ride. I had chosen somewhere I knew to be flat – I enjoy calming cycle routes, where one may collate ones thoughts without having to get off and push the bike up a hill. We put the bikes in the van, lathered on the sun cream (no tan marks for me thank you very much... or as it turned out – no tan at all) and drove off.

We had packed sandwiches. I had made both sets, one for Frank and some for me and naturally Frank’s tasted better. So I ate his instead. Much to his disgust. I don’t know how far we cycled. But it was long. The problem with cycling  a straight line is that you have to come back that way. Luckily we were on a pub route, so liquid refreshment was always a target. We were doing exceptionally well, if you discredit my attempt to break both wrists by cycling over a huge pothole without suspension, the pedal grazes that I gauged in each shin, and the large number of flying insects I swallowed. But then Frank broke his bike. We won’t go into details as it is rather distressing and involved him hollering expletives across sedate English countryside.

He broke the derailer. A bit that guides the chains over the gear wheels. Basically the bit that makes you move forward when you pedal. Cycling back was not an option. We’d bypassed the first pub because I knew the second one was nicer but had conveniently forgotten how much further it was. So we turned around. I sat aboard/mounted the broken bike and was pushed along by Frank , who was riding my bike and pushing my saddle.  My instructions were clear “keep going straight and do not peddle”. Why is it, when you’re told not to do something it makes it so much harder to resist?

Anyway, resist I did. We arrived at the pub. Frank was exhausted and I was well rested from my leisurely trip. He left me with his wallet (bad move), no phone ( he took his and I hadn’t brought mine in order to feel completely at peace with the great outdoors) and a broken bike. He abandoned me outside a pub so he could continue back, fetch the van and gallantly return to pick me up.

I counted the paving slabs. Bought two drinks. Watched people come and go. And decided that I relied on my blackberry a little too much – surely I would be able to entertain myself for a short period of time without it?

What an easy way get rid of a girlfriend with a terrible shopping habit. Leave her in a pub with a limited amount of cash, no PIN number for your cards and no way to get home.

But he did come back for me. About 40 minutes later.

So my weekend has provided me with an insane amount of exercise, though I still deem shopping to be the most beneficial – after all, you are multi-tasking. I have grazes and gashes on my shins, intestines full of minute flying creatures dissolved by stomach acid, and a greater love for my blackberry than I ever deemed possible. And because of my aches and pains I even forgot it was Monday. And I forgot I wasn't meant to drink coffee. Caffeine has amazing pain relief capabilities.

...And then I imerse myself into another bland Monday.

So here we are. Monday evening. Currently sat at the kitchen table poised with gin in hand. For the record I have mixed this gin (it goes by the name of Gordon) with small amount of tonic, ice and thrown a lemon slice in for good measure but for the record, it’s also pretty good straight. Through the eyeball.

I joke. I haven’t reached these desperate measures yet. The day I do, you may cart me off in a straight jacket and hold me in a padded cell. And no doubt, it will happen on Monday. Just to make a Monday exciting.

Nothing out of the ordinary has happened today. Nothing especially bad has happened today. Nothing to completely ruin my life. Nothing to make me say “Well did you know what happened to me today?”, or to look back at my life and remember that exceptional day that was April 1th 2011. It was just mundane-ness. All day.

I went running (again). I didn’t fall over, scrape up my knee or twist my ankle. I did sweat the ganges though. However, this is not unusual.

The only delay this morning was deciding which pair of shoes should accompany a standard outfit. No different from every other morning. Nothing extraordinary.

My car started without fault this morning ( thanks, Brian – I would have loved some drama this morning) I fed him Brian juice because I was early for work ... on a Monday? My card was accepted without any problems by the chip’n’pin and I pulled away without stalling. I found a parking space in a crowded car park. And remembered my security pass.

I knew all the answers to all the questions I was asked today, and I even helped Miss Hendo with her workload.

All of this is standard Monday stuff.

I would have like to been driven to work in horse and carriage, wearing one of those fancy dresses and ridiculous sized hats with a colourful plume. I would like to have been hijacked by a masked highwayman and whisked away for ransom. I would like to have remained unharmed and to have unknowingly fallen head over hills in love with my masked captor.

Sadly this was not to be.

I would like to have a huge bunch of flowers delivered to my desk and to have been embarrassingly serenaded by a barber shop quartet. Just to add some cheese to my life.

I would have quite liked an anonymous email to arrive in my inbox giving me instructions to get myself to the Eurostar platform at Waterloo station by 5 o’clock. Upon arrival I would find out that I had been headhunted by MI5 and was now being sent off to save a British diplomat and to find the scoundrel framing them for a dirty crime.

My inbox remained empty.

I would like to have cut a certain Miss Hepburn from a particular movie revolving around food consumption in a jewellery shop and played the role myself. Word for word. Problem is, I don’t like cats and I don’t smoke. Nor do I have the perfect LBD, or her wonderful clipped tones. I don’t live in New York or meet criminals in prison.

I will never work for MI5, because my numerical skills are ... blank. (I skipped that gene) And due to the legislation regarding kidnap and the abandonment of dowry’s and ‘selling’ off one’s daughters to an eligible bachelor, neither shall I ride off on horseback with a masked gentleman.

The sad thing about having an overactive imagination fuelled by caffeine is that often you write yourself into beautiful period dramas with ruggedly handsome men, or become a female Bond and save the British government in a pair of Christian Louboutin’s. When your normal life is bland, there is nothing to stop this internal film producing company from going into overdrive.

You write the script.

Film the shots.

Direct.

Produce.

And applaud your own efforts and award at the Oscars. Except I have this amazing ability to avoid the dramatic sobs in the “I want to thank Frank, and my Mum and my Dad, the dog who lived next door who was my only friend as a child” speech.

Then you realise, its Monday. Again.

And Monday’s are always this bland. So you always run away into Imagi-World (the best theme park ever) And every Monday you make the same realisation.

“Today is Monday. I am five days from the weekend. And I shouldn’t drink anymore coffee.”

N.B

I found out this weekend, that after excessive drinking on Friday night I no longer possess the amazing bounce-back reflex . The incredible reflex reaction to hangovers when you don’t feel a thing the following morning, your face is free from smudged make-up and you are doe-eyed and wide awake.

Not only do I no longer have this. But now that slightly-not-quite-right-because-I-definitely-drank-a-lot-of-alcohol feeling lasts two whole days. What is this?

...And then I ignored my shin splints.

When something is bad for you, you just want to do it more.
Drinking stupid amounts of coffee, followed by stupid amounts of gin.
Yes caffeine makes you hyperactive, and yes - gin might be a depressant, but if you were super happy to begin with then it just levels you out on par with normality. So this is fine.

However, when you have self diagnosed shin splints, running on a delightfuly warm evening with a dog who may at any point keel over is not a good idea.

This is a much better idea when you run to the baywatch theme tune.
No one else can hear it. You feel like a very attractive and fit lifeguard, your legs seem to work faster and you're so much more empowered.


And the you make it home. The dog collapses and you realise that you have no movement in your legs. It hurts a lot. And you look more like the flailing bodies that are rescued from the water, rather than the beautiful people running in.

And so to an ice cold gin and tonic with a large wedge of lemon to numb the pain.

I must say it works.
And this still seems to be legible. Result.


N.B While we're enjoying sunglasses and warm weather which we aren't meant to have in April, can we please spare a thought for poor Frank. The wonderful snow he was meant to have, wasn't quite so wonderful. Bet he's glad he didn't pay for the ski trip now. See you next week Frank!

...And then it was half way through another week.

It’s Wednesday. We are closer to the weekend than we were yesterday but not quite close enough. And already I have been a busy little bee. A slightly superstitious little bee.  But a bee all the same.

I’m sure if you are a bee, then a magpie probably isn’t your best friend. I know this sounds like the sort of thing a crazy cat lady might say (apologies to any crazy cat ladies) but I am being followed by magpies. It might be the same little cohort, but I can’t be sure. They’re all black and white. And they don’t appear to have any distinguishing marks.

But the strangest thing, stranger than admitting to be ‘followed’ by birds, is that rather lucky things have been happening. Not unlucky as per the normal silly superstitions. Nothing mega though, I haven’t won the euro millions. But if these little birds could sort that out then I would obviously be eternally grateful. Just little things.

Like seeing bollards in car parks BEFORE I hit them.

And finding £10 in the pocket of a jacket (I think you’ll agree that this is a very special moment!)

And ...the really odd thing, which is maybe related to the moon (now I sound really crazy) ... I actually wanted to exercise this week. Three times! I know! Madness, right? It was even in the outside. I ran in an environment devoid of automated climate systems, piped music, and unattractive sweaty men huffing and puffing on electronic machines next to you. I ran outside. With the dog. For half an hour.  Three times! I haven’t quite got over it myself, to be honest.

I obviously didn’t run for the whole 30 minutes, that’s going a bit far. But I did the whole walk, fast walk, jog, run, jog, fast walk, jog, run, jog, fast walk. Felt like a pro. And poor pooch was almost dead. I won’t take her again.

In my keenness to get fit and embrace the early morning sunshine and because I don’t own proper running shoes, I may have given myself shin splints. Excellent.

Maybe the magpies haven’t lost their unlucky touch after all.

I am lucky in other ways. I have spent two evenings in wonderful company (present time excluded, because eating risotto on your own isn’t that entertaining). I have had my CV spring cleaned by Mr Commonwealth  (just protecting your identity Sir)and then laughed at oh so many well dressed students queuing for entry to Tiger Tiger. I don’t claim to be a fashion guru, shoe habit taken out of consideration of course, but it’s not hard to spot a walking disaster. Of which there were many! Ladies, and gents if you are out there too, if you must insist on using fake tan – please take pity on us mere mortal pasties and avoid the streaks. At least then we can actually envy you and your beautiful tan like want us too!

A jolly good evening drinking a single coke, which is probably why I missed the bollard, and a cappuccino, the catalyst in the reaction between my brain and mouth which made it all work much faster. I’m sure Mr Commonwealth a) could hardly understand a word I was saying as I gabbled at the speed of sound and b) had absolutely no idea what I was chirping on about anyway, what with my talk of Manolo’s and Louboutin’s. Shame on me, and at my first business meeting!

Bloomin’ magpie. Oh well, it can only can better.

I was also lucky enough to be able to say goodbye to Miss Alice Chamberlain before she jets off to Greece on Saturday. Secretly I’m ignoring the fact she’s going somewhere hot. She’s actually flying out to Siberia to heard mountain goats. We, ( a certain Miss Oz, Miss Hendo, Miss Skoda, Miss Alice and Miss USA) spent the evening in well decorated flat consuming a disgusting amount of quavers (other cheese flavoured snacks are available), kettle chips (quite possible the guiltiest crisps to munch – you can feel the fat build up on those bits you try so hard to hide), cheese straws, pizza and oven chips with garlic salt. And a huge array of shop bought and home-made cake-like delicacies. Only the healthiest options of course. Miss Hendo did make a contribution of tomatoes and crudités, which were much appreciated. Thank you for the vegetables.

However, this small intake of vitamins did not prevent the feeling of over indulgence and pure unhealthiness. I tried to burn this feeling away on a cross trainer this morning. It was not to be.

And so, thank you Magpie’s for making me feel worse than terrible and keeping me in at home alone while the family wined and dined in the yacht club.

This bee takes back all that she said. Magpie’s are not lucky. But that doesn’t mean they’re not stalkers. Watch your backs.

...And then it was a (not so) surprise weekend with Frank.

Brian and I journeyed to Ipswich on Thursday evening.
We managed it without spending extortionate amounts at Clackett Lane services.
We managed to sing a long to every track on every CD in the car.
We managed not to get lost.
And we managed to make it all they way there AND back on less than half a tank of Brian juice.
I was very impressed by my little KA's adverse drinking habits and believe it had a great deal to do with the lack of pressure of the accelorator. No driving in heavy boots for me this weekend.

Frank was shocked to see me before his disappeared to France on a very cheap ski trip. By very cheap, I obviously mean free. Ah, the bona fide perks of being a teacher! This fact won't feature in this blog anymore as I find it highly distressing that while I am stuck to a computer trying to operate a new system, he shall be gliding down the alps attached to two planks with the sun on his face and snow in his hair. And his only expense is his 'off piste petty cash' - AKA beer tokens! Git. But I am not bitter.


A wonderful couple of days in Ipswich in the, can you believe it... sunshine! And then time to drive home yesterday.
I decided that I didn't want to put any more petrol in the car and that I would drive the alternative route home (M25 past Heathrow, as opposed to Dartford - just for future reference) which is 8 miles longer - just to see if I could do it.
The curse of attempting to get home on quarter of a tank is your inability to drive at anything more than 65mph. However my speedo is 5 miles out so Brian and I trundled home at 60. Granny pace.

However it was sunny and I had Radio 1 playing through the speakers and was able to relish the early afternnon sunshine on the A12. The problem with driving much slower than usual is that you notice more. I counted 23 dead pheasants on the central reservation. You think they might have worked out that if the best mate Barry is laying flattened on the road it might be a good idea not to cross. Apparently not.
And besides - pheasants have wings. Perhaps they should fly. Their malting carcasses are not a pretty sight.

Arriving on the M25 I noticed something that I hadn't before, thanks to the courteous drivers on the Ipswich road. Driving at granny speed brings with it shame, humiliation and sheer embarrasement. Over the duration of my journey I was over taken by five lorries and three coaches, luckily they were empty of jeering schoolchildren.
To be overtaken by huge lorries, thundering past is very sad. But you can't see the driver so he might not be laughing/tutting/shaking his head at you - but when the chelsea tractors speed past and all the other little 'normal' people cars, you can see the families gawking at you. Disbelief written all over their faces - "why would you want to drive that slow?"
I'd like to admit that it was a concious choice to make an environmental point, and to prove that we don't need to rush everywhere. But actually I couldn't afford to fill up again.
I have no idea where the garage was that was accidently selling for for 12p per litre thanks to a system malfunction, but I should have definitely found it.

Like most people, my biggest expense is petrol. Liquid replenishment for a car. I can't even afford alcoholic liquid for me. ( I did  however treat myself to a double shot, extra shot, tall, tall skinny caramel macchiato, just to congratulate myself on my lack of fuel consumption)
I feel that I shall be driving at 60 for quite a while.
Perhaps I should get a car sticker "recovering from student debt - preserving petrol. Just overtake"


P.S Frank, please try to make sure you don't break a leg. And make sure you don't miss the bus to come home. Your trip won't be quite so cheap if you have to pay for a flight back!