Happy Birthday to Cherry

Cherry’s birthday blues.

Well today is a day for forgetting about running and remembering the day of my birth. I didn’t run yesterday, I won’t run tomorrow or Saturday, but I will start again on Sunday.

Today I will mostly be having and internal dialogue that occasionally externalises itself in the form of hysterical shrieking. I will be having a stern word with myself about the last year and discussing ways to be less of a disaster area again this time next year. I think probably not having days off running to go to the pub and celebrate my birthday would be a good start, but never mind that.

For more birthday whining look at this.

Or for a bit of a larf, look at this

God I’m an irritating whingeing old bag! But don’t worry, I’ll be back to normal in no time and the demons will be safely confined to me head where they will fester as a mental illness or malignant tumour.

And over to Sarah…

It's Cherry's Birthday

In an act of unstinting generosity, I am not going to run but go to the pub to help Cherry celebrate her birthday. What a saint I am. I did run yesterday. A four miler. It wasn't too bad. A couple of days off seem to have helped though I was a tad stiff when I first set out. I looked a little like a octogenarian octopus with arthritis. Legs and arms were going everywhere but at strange angles. I am sure for the first half mile, the looks that are normally directed to my chest area were being distracted by the strange wobbling limbs being thrust outwards like I had a personal vendetta against that section of pavement, or those leaves on that tree or the small child on a tricycle.

Anyway, it got better. What I would like to rise though is the male response to my jogging. OK, I have sweat marks everywhere, my face is visible in space and people think it is a mini sun as it is so hot, my hair is held back by a head band beautifully fashioned to circa 1990 yet I get beeped and leery wa-hays. Why? Is it because my boobs, squashed into a sports bra and covered with an ample t-shirt are bobbing up and down, do I look so fetching in sports gear with my VPL and damp patches. I have come to the conclusion that men are stupid and will beep anything. I wish they would stop and allow me to jog in my festering state unnoticed.