Tales from the brown side.

Hello reader, if indeed you are a reader,

You are still stuck with me as Sarah is lounging about at home like the misfit she is, and with no one to speak to my blogs are going to get more and more strange and scatological. A friend of mine describes August as a wicked month, and I see her point. There is no one good around to email as everyone is on holiday, and work dies off a bit. Since I am one of a dwindling number of people who can be bothered to come into the office this month, this leaves me with no one to talk to, nothing to do and my only outlet into the world rambling into this blog. Which, very probably, no one reads.

Four and a half miles tonight and as the mileage creeps up, my thoughts turn to Poo Stage, and when it will rear it’s turtle’s head. I expect it will be like finally reaching Nirvana or enlightment (although more messy and evil smelling) and come with a tremendous sense of achievement.

Sarah tells me that its around the 8 mile mark, so if all staying on track, I should be running round London with a load in my pants in a matter of weeks. I’m imagining all sorts of Gambling and Losing scenarios, particularly ones where I have put it all on brown.

I’m BORED!

ROCK!

OK how rock am I? Last night I did a full day at work, a 5 mile run AND went to the pub. Amazing what you can achieve when you are trying to avoid unpacking.

I have to say I entirely agree with Sarah’s point of a few days ago, regarding sexually aggressive heckling of the innocent runner. There seem to be a lot of van drivers in the neighbourhood whose particular fettish is, it seems, slightly chubby, sweaty women with crimson faces. Wonder what’s going on there. Shame I don’t fancy Sun reading, wing mirror ignoring morons or I would never be short of a date.

In other news, I stepped on the scales last night and have lost half a stone! Today I am celebrating with Pringles.

Ahh well - from Cherry

Well, it’s fair to say that not much running happened over the weekend. Instead there was drinking beer, barbequing sausages, and moving house. Sarah helped me move, and I think we all got plenty of exercise on account of my old flat being up three million stairs.
Still I hope to arise phoenix like from my own ashes today as I take up running again with gusto. Or maybe tomorrow.

I'm feeling slightly more Snickers than Marathon today.

In other news - Sarah is off work this week like a massive slacker.

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.

The Day the Music Died (Sarah)

Tuesday was written off due to sunshine and an urgent need to visit the pub. It was an issue of national importance. Yesterday, after a very, very early start (doing things I should have done the evening before but was too busy in the pub to do), there was a pizza for lunch and then falling asleep on the sofa when I got home from work. This took any desire of mine to be good and run and led it into a dark alley to teach it a lesson. It won't be making that mistake again. It was all compounded by a fish and chips supper before more dozing on the sofa. On the plus side, I do know what has happened to a number of people a year after they approached the dragons den. Thank God, I was missing sleep on that.

Finally, to top off a long, unsatisfactory day, there was the awakening at silly o clock. This would be the erstwhile "only going for one pint" Jon and Neil. Now Neil is a nice bloke, but please, dear God, once again I was awoken to him strumming a guitar and singing very loudly wwwwwoooooohhhhhh oooohhhhhh. Both are lucky that they weren't confronted with a sleep smudged homicidal female willing to wrap guitar around wwooohh oohhhh heads.
Tonight, I shall resume training.

The Day all hope of anything Died (Cherry)

I did my run! What a saint! I went for a 4 mile limp which was a genuine limp by the time I got home because one of my hips was grumbling and hurting. I maybe need a hip replacement. I am 29 tomorrow after all.

In all honesty, running and hips are the least of my problems. Yesterday my day started with having a filling with no anaesthetic and went steadily downhill from there. I’m moving house at the weekend, enduring multiple personal traumas and am having a serious case of the birthday blues. Another year, another birthday alone, and nothing to show for my life but a series of broken relationships and numerous box-sets of cartoons. In fact if anything this helps my training as my self loathing is now so acute that I actually enjoy the pain of running. It beats self mutilation. I wonder if anyone else has run a marathon as an undetectable form of self harm. Maybe the endorphines will do me good.

I'm off to listen to some Emo rock and dye my hair black.

walking and scowling

Sarah says

Oops. Went to the pub instead of running. But here is a picture of me doing exercise.

Cherry says:

I did my run. Should I post a pic of myself drinking beer?