Alright, so I stuck up a homemade sign on my kitchen press that read You Fat Bitch in nice, bubbly letters. It was strictly for a laugh and to post up on my blog. I removed it precisely two days later when Screecher Creature No. 1 was kilt trying to pronounce Bitch using his Jolly Phonics sounds. I did not want him going into school and telling Munteoir about his new word. Can you imagine? I have mentioned the book Run Fat B!tch Run a few times now and I can highly recommend it if anyone is trying to do exactly what it says on the tin; run. It certainly got me up and moving and I can now manage 3.2km comfortably enough. The lungs are screaming and I managed to burst a blood vessel in my eye a couple of weeks back, but no matter, it’s working and I am loving it. Putting those words on my press was my idea; whereas the author recommends that you scream them at yourself in the bathroom mirror each morning, whilst eyeing your disgraceful naked state up and down. That was never going to happen in my house. Whatever about Munteoir being called You Fat Bitch, I didn’t want him getting the visuals to go along with it! Jayzus, lads! It’s all about mind games, this running lark, about breaking through the pain barriers. Should I stick in here that I like to swear? It’s not off topic. In the same way that a good old run (I love saying that!) makes me feel great (despite the burning lungs and sweaty face!) firing off the odd (ok, more than odd) expletive makes me feel fookin marvellous!! I feel better almost immediately. The stress levels come right down. It is not recommended, naturally enough that you let rip in front of your kids, but hey, accidents happen. I reckon I’m seasoned enough at this stage in the game to know that kids will regurgitate choice morsels at the most inopportune moments. I really should know better than to mutter the eff word under my breath in their presence because I can be guaranteed that (a) they will hear it and (b) reproduce it in front of polite company with perfect clarity. How come you can repeat yourself until you are blue in the face with orders such as eat your breakfast/tidy up/put on your shoes/leave your brother/your nose/your behind/your willy alone and they act like they’ve never heard it before. Yet the first time you utter the eff word, it’s branded on their little brain and taken out to be used against you? Another thing I have admitted to doing is talking to myself. So it goes something like this: I’m out running and going grand. I have my circuit and know it well. I use a certain point along the way to stop and walk briskly if I need to catch my breath. If you were bringing up the rear you would most likely hear something like this. “Come on! You can do it. Only a bit to go. Halfway through this song, get to the end of it. FFS! Put your back into it. Christ, I can’t effin stop now, there’s a car coming and I’d look stupid. (The main road is part of my circuit) Jayzus, come on! Effin drive, wouldja? I’m dying here! Right, he’s gone. OhfortheloveofJayzus, here’s one on the approach. Bollix!! I’m in bits come effin ON! I need to slow down and it’s bad enough that you’re all probably laughing at me effin killin’ myself, I’m not giving ye the satisfaction of seeing me stop!” And so on and so on. Mind games, see. And before I know it, I’ve not only reached my stopping landmark, but ran past it and whaddya know, I’ve pushed past that pain barrier they all keep talking about, and I keep on running. The jelly like shakes in my legs have gone off somewhere, my tongue has become dislodged from the roof of my mouth, there is a most satisfying trickle of sweat running down my back and a fan-fookin-tastic song has just come on in my ear buds to give me that extra little burst of energy to take me the final leg of the run! ‘Course, if I’d just shut up and run instead of talking to myself, I’d probably knock another couple of minutes off my personal time by saving my breath for the job in hand. Watch this space!!!!
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