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The Fun that is week three.

Saturday:

So. After the fun that was last week, I decided to keep going, and on Saturday morning early headed out to do my run. I wasn’t too worried about the time, I just kept going until I  had a couple of miles down. Then it was back home.

“Mummy!” my little angel greeted me. “You’re all pink!”

No I did not take a picture, go look at a daisy.

Ah bless. Yes, pale skin and red hair and flushed face means Mum look all pretty. I had my shower and cleaned up, ate breakfast, tidied up. Then it was out of the house for a bit. The other half needed to get some parcels from the post office, so I headed down in the car. Walking away from the parked car I noticed something.

I.

Was.

Limping.

Ow. Ow ow ow. 

My left hip felt like someone had wretched it out and hurriedly put it back in again. I limped into the post office, got the parcels, then back to the car. It felt like I needed to put myself in some weird position to get the ache out of my limbs, but I had no idea how.

Then, that afternoon, it was time to take the car to the NCT place in Deansgrange. The kid was happy (at first) to watch them have a look at it, but became convinced that they were stealing it. Coping with that and growing dehydration wasn’t good. Back home, I headed down to the local shop to get dinner, then ate and then bath for kiddo, followed by bed for me, honestly glad there was no scheduled exercise for a few days.

Sunday: get away from me, rest day.

Monday: Was lucky enough to see the in-laws, and to hang out with my very cool sister-in-law and brother-in-law. It was supposed to be a ‘simple tapas thingie’, but my mother-in-law managed to present the most sophisticated buffet out of no-where. We sat in the garden and relaxed, not really caring that the rain was coming down. I drove us all home, glad of the few days off work.

Tuesday: Right! Home from work, time to get twenty minutes in. I managed to cut two minutes off the time, so hurrah for me. It is getting easier, but one thing about getting older is that you notice your improvement speed is slower, as is your recovery time. Still. I feel much better these days, so much so that I’ll be able to pose laughing over a bowl of salad any minute now.

Image result for woman salad

Oh asparagus, you just get me…

 

Wednesday: Rest day, ha ha!

 

Thursday:

Honestly not sure if I can find the time today. Lots of lovely meetings.

 

Friday:

I went swimming.

And it was a lot better than before; the rhythm was much more present, and I got it done with not a bit of bother. Still taking far too long to get ready afterwards, however.

I was supposed to go away this weekend, but had to change them, which means mentally I have no plans to go running today, Sunday. But needs must. Will see how we get on.

 

The plan for next week is:

Monday – Rest day

Tuesday – run after work

Wednesday – Rest day

Thursday – Swim at lunch

Friday – Rest day

Sunday – Run

So now you know too and should feel duty bound, dear reader, to remind me if I fail. Anyways, keep her lit!

Right. Max the envelope, and so forth

New Readers start here.

So, the saga continues. I know I said that this was going to start on Tuesday, but Sunday rolled around and I decided that there really was no point in waiting. So on went the shoes, and the tracksuit, and off I went.

See, that happened at about 5pm. And if you go to Met.ie, and look up the daily data for Dublin Airport at that time, you’ll see that 1mm of rain fell at that time.

All at once.

On my head.

About half way through the first mile I realised this was not going to level off. I kept going, because I had to; there was no way I was giving up on the first mile of the first run. But ye gods! Everything was soaking wet; the hair, the leggings, all of it. I was honestly worried the phone was going to go with all that water.  I saw a kid out there in shorts and a jacket and wondered where the hell were his parents…

I will say that the number of joggers-nods increased. This is a phenomenon whereby joggers/runners show their mutual respect by giving a solemn nod to each other as they pass. No words, just a nod, implying that we are all in a special club, and everyone else is just running because they’re late somewhere. I got several nods on Sunday, even from the wiry ‘I haven’t stopped running since Gay Byrne was on the Late Late show’ types, and I felt very special. I made it home and had the most amazing shower ever. That evening I looked out and saw the same kid, still wondering around the estate. What the hell was going on?

 

Monday – Rest day. Ambrosia from the Gods day.

 

Tuesday– Swimming day. Packed up my dust-covered (not kidding) swim suit and headed over to the pool at work. I swam for twenty minutes, with no headaches, dizziness or trouble. I was as slow as a mule, which, if you picture one in a pool is pretty much what we have here.

Weeeeeee!

Swim, in short, was fine. Getting myself ready to be productive at my desk took me forever (shower, dress, hair, makeup, and go). I need one of these, me thinks.

 

Wednesday; felt that pleasant ache in my muscles. All good.

 

Thursday; Right, when to go for a run? Couldn’t do it during lunch hour, so instead pulled on the runners before I went to pick up the child. And oh my God the difference. Running after a day’s work, even desk work, is much much harder on the body and soul. Firstly, lots of lovely people about, to comment and smile that smile, the smile that is both smug and amused at the same time. Bless ‘em in their ear.

Secondly, it is harder. I was more tired, and much slower than I had any right to be. I should have improved since last Sunday, but instead was much worse. I got into bed like a zombie, and honestly fell asleep as fast as I sank into the mattress.

 

Friday: (Today) Rest day. Three sessions down, and the schedule getting closer to figured out. The great thing about fitness is that it only needs brute endurance. If you keep going, you cannot but get better.

Good luck sisters.

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Anyone want to train with me?

So. I used to exercise, three times a week. Up at 5am, off to the pool, where I’d swim four kilometres, then clean myself up and then get on with the day. But as we can see here (points with pointer), I got sick. And spent most of the month sick. And as I am so rarely sick, I felt a bit out of it, and unwilling to stretch myself since then.

There was also the rather important fact that my son got used to my being here in the mornings; That is, when he thought I was now gone in the mornings, he’d scream the house down. I don’t know much about motivation, but seeing the mite horrified and traumatised by the idea of my absence saw me mentally put the gym bag down.

And keep it down. Meaning that I have not been exercising AT ALL since April. No swims, no running, nowt. And that is not good, if only because I’m getting older and regular exercise is the way to prevent a huge range of illnesses.

So. I aim to do something about it. Starting next week, I will be following the VHI Ladies Mini-Marathon training programme. And it also means you get to hear about it.

So, this is me;

 

Day 1: Run 20 minutes easy – Tuesday lunchtime

Day 2: Rest – Wednesday

Day 3: Run 20 mins – easy pace – Thursday after work

Day 4: Rest – Friday

Day 5: Cross train- cycle/swim/walk  – Saturday

Day 6: Run 25 mins – easy to moderate pace – Sunday

Day 7: Rest

 

Will be reporting back next week.

Anyone want to follow it with me? Anyone??

Aspiration for Affinities (1)

I am no gardener. It’s green, it grows, good for it. So far in my life I’ve killed heather, cactus, tulips, ferns, heck, I’ve even killed bog plants. Yes, really, dead as anything.  The only thing I haven’t killed is the orchid I inherited in my last flat, and a big part of that is the fact that I’ve moved out.

But anyways.  In our home is a garden. And I put the call out on Facebook for advice on what to do with the following;

 

Garden also untouched

Garden untouched

Our untouched wilderness

‘Cut it back’ seems to be the main advice, due to the fact that the major component is wilderness. But did our heroine go down that route? Stay tuned for another blog what I write when I am not falling down with exhaustion….

When Men Happy With it Women Can Access Health Care, Government Confirms

In a press scrum today, a Government spokesmen confirmed that legislators were waiting for the male population of Ireland to agree before it allowed women to have abortions.
Image result for government spokesman leinster house
“It’s very simple,” he said, “we merely need to have consensus among the men of Ireland before we decide to listen to women. Look, we all know they’re mad altogether, with the the moods, and the tears, and the fantasies. Once all us sensible people agree, then there will be agreement on how to roll it out to them, without them loosing the head on it.”
“This way,” he continued, “we can ensure it’s done without making the men of Ireland angry or annoyed with the Government.  If men are mad, then that’s really bad for us, what with them dominating the Church, politics and all of society. You do know that they make up 75% of the population, right?  And if women forced us into it, what about our right to do as we decide we need? Can’t be having that. Wimmen, am I right, lads?”
At the time of writing, the government of Ireland was looking at it’s hands, whistling, and not answering it’s phone….

Ok. Enough of the Silence.

Right. So I’m fobbing around with this writing malarkey long enough, so here is a stated goal. Have my novel under review with a literary agent or publisher by Christmas 2017. And yes, I can do that, and yes, I will do that.

In the meantime, I aim to make this blog a shining beacon of wonder and high stats because, firstly, it would help my writing career and secondly, I very much need the validation and attention.

What, that was a surprise?

So, to do that I will need to write more regularly, and to do so at least once a week. Blog posts up every Thursday from now on.

Have a good one, all of ye. Night night.

Can’t work won’t work

So I’ve made lists, made threats, made bribes, made prompts, made further plans and… nothing. Not a thing done. I went to the International Literary Festival in Dublin last week and was too scared to speak to any of the agents, (“they might HEAR me!”) and walked away truly discouraged, as I can only imagine would be to the relief of some of them. A few seemed so jaded and unhappy it was unattractive. It did put to rest any idea I would have of writing as a full time thing. Only the very lucky are rewarded with that and I hate that it won’t be me. I hate lots of things these days.

In any case, I have gotten home each day and sat at this and done NOTHING. Let’s put that shame up there again shall we, NOTHING. I’ve broken my diet over and over again, let the house get sloppy and internally screamed at myself at work. Not worried. I despise people like me most of the time but I find I just can’t make whatever model I’ve concocted in my head sit comfortably. I might be insisting on perfection, but I’m never ever going to get it. All I’ve ever accomplished is failing comfortably; I’ve been the brown bread with the broken crust straight out of the oven, or the curve on a warped window sill that is all the more pleasant for it.  I have never achieved a bloody thing in my life, and something inside won’t let me start now.

All I want to do is to sit and enjoy the sun. Wish I could do that.

 

Just Because You’re an Idiot is no Reason Not to Try.

So. I have a 100k novel to tidy up and make presentable. I’ve done little to none of it, and the honest reason for that is I believe it is beyond me. I am stupid. Yes, stupid, like lose-a-winning-lottery-ticket stupid. Like pull-my-own-finger stupid. Like stick the pen in my eye stupid. I routinely handle heavy goods when it should be outlawed, and I’ve even become a Mum, when I honestly should be parented myself.

So. Stupid. And so this task which should be given over to Atwood, or Alberto Manguel, or Umberto Eco, or Neil Gaiman, these people who have books and libraries and time and effervesce and ability and jesus just the talent for it. The pitying looks from colleagues and the thud-thud-thud of my own brain makes the suggestion of it falling to me as nonsense. The book should be crafted into baroque plaster work, something intricate and smart and new each time you read. Instead I’ll make it into a holiday read with oversimple English because no one understands me anyway and a metaphor that is LIKE THIS IN CASE YOU MISS IT and a subplot that no one will see because see paragraph one, I’m an idiot.

Image result for excellent plasterwork

Something like this that you can take with you as you go, unadorned by attachment.

So yeah. Idiot. But if I leave this to languish, no one else will care about them. No one is going to hurt when they do, or fight for them to keep going, or even think about them after I’m gone. No one will give a damn. So yeah, I’m an idiot. But I’m the only idiot attached to this thing.

Jaysus, this is what it must have been like with Frodo, a minnow in the face of overwhelming odds. And we have similar feet, so there’s that…

Right, have to get dinner on. Gwan with ye.

 

Image result for hobbit's foot

What?

Upvote.

I find myself less and less able to review and comment on sad events on social media. I noticed it with the dead of the pilots of 116. No words would even come close to matching that tragedy, and why should it? Who am I? The appalling nature of it in my minds eye, the spinning and crashing and violence of it all, followed by their pain and their deaths; a like on facebook? A heart on twitter? This is my landscape? No.

It means that when something is on Facebook, I’ll scroll. Al Jazeera is on my feed, and they are real. The starving in somalia, the gaza strip, the white helments in Aleppo, it is all there to see. They will bring you to the whitened cateract of the dead child under the rubble and make no apologies for it. And it does matter. I have and will continue to contact governments, ministers, TDs for it.
But what about me? My stomach sick, my heart lowered, my mental health punched. Returning from illness means I see this all anew, and I cannot. I cannot and will not be the drama they want to create. I will not give them the adrenaline they need. I will fight for a long time, not just for a battle for them.
And the need for sensationalism is everywhere. This blog was inspired by the widower of the slain police officer in France, who’s funeral oration is posted by the Guardian, which I scrolled right past. A private and unending sorrow that my sympathy as a stranger will do nothing to allieve. I provide them with nothing by my further distress. No.
Is it maturity? Is it a move towards unfeeling conservatism, that some political commentators develop as they get older? No, it is not. If anything, it seems I am getting more reserved, and saving the reduced energy I have for what I believe in the strongest (collapse of the world order and wealth distribution, mental health provision, female rights and oops did I say that out loud).  Me get older. Me now know me not wise. Me act accordingly. And onwards.

Oh So Tired

Right. You lot get ten minutes of my skilled and unique view of life. And that is by the clock people, I’m timing this.

To start with, I have been sick. As in, med cert for two weeks sick. My sinuses got infected, and then my inner ear, so I’ve been fatigued and exhausted in ways that moved from casual to formal. Bed rest, soup, weary eyes looking up at the ceiling once and then going back to sleep, the whole nine yards.

All recovered, I returned to work. My will for life was not quite there yet, but that was out of my hands. Barring lotto wins, life had to happen anyways. Then, on Friday, giving little man a bath, I noticed the most delightful blotches. All over him. Chicken pox, alright, right on time. He was the last person in his room at creche to get it, but he saved the best for last. And the creche obviously would not accept him until he was no longer contagious.

The interweb said that it would take ten days to get over it. Shooooot. Calamine lotion and Calpol. No Nurofen, as that can make the blotches much worse for some children. I recall enduring the worst possible experience with them; red pepper nights of burning skin while the rest of the family slept, lanolin cream doing nothing to ease it. But the kid seemed in rude good health; the major problem was keeping an energetic kid entertained without leaving the house for a week. By Saturday he was fine, all good. Which was just as well, because…

[Dramatic pause] The other half now has a bacterial infection in his chest and lungs. He is on seventy-five pills a day to keep him going, and even though he rarely gets sick, it is still a surprise for him how ill he feels. So that is all three of us, in the same period, getting sick. Perfect.

We are a sit-com, and the writers are getting desperate. Will keep you posted.