Jogger: A Sort of Tardis With Legs...

The spring has officially spa-ruuuung!!  Or is it summer now?  I'm not sure.

Just Googled it. Yup, it's summer.  I LOVE summer.  I spend weekends employing any excuse to get out of the house, often just standing on my doorstep doing nothing bar grinning like a moron who's never experienced daylight.  My weekdays then comprise of staring out the office window and waiting for the imaginary bell to ring that means I can turn off my computer and go out to play.

Summer reminds me of one of the main reasons that I love running.  It's the perfect way to be outside and not just creepily smiling at your neighbours from your doorstep with morning hair. People think you're being all productive and healthy and shit, when all you're really doing is getting high as balls off of mother nature's brightest lamp. This week has been glorious, and I feel effing marvelous!  

Yes, I am aware that I might have mild s.a.d.  Grey clouds depress me, and no one should ever cross me if it's windy out.  Oof.

Last week (a crappier week for weather), I was my own lazy twin.  I was lethargic and stressed, and all I wanted to do was glare at the TV and eat leftover Easter eggs until the mess around me decided to clean itself up.  I convinced myself that it was a busy week.  I was too busy.  Work and boring, domestic chores were mounting up, and I didn't have time to run.  Mundane, everyday tasks and their sheer, bloody endlessness were getting to me, and I just wanted to drop everything and sulk in a hole until all this being-a-grown-up bullshit passed me by.  How people who reproduce manage to take care of themselves as well as other humanlings is beyond me.  I find it hard enough to point myself in the vague direction of work at the right time every morning.

I may also have been PMSing, but this is wholly beside the point.  However, it would go some way explain the fact that everyone I spoke to's heads turned into chocolate eggs right before my eyes.

Yes.  Moving on.  After a week of self pity and doing everything from laundry to making food so that I could, y'know, live and stuff with way more unbridled fury than strictly necessary, a friend and I went for a ten mile run.  

And I felt instantly better.  After my knees remembered how to be knees, anyway.  Once I'd had a snack and a little sit down, I chased those up with an epiphany.  I will always have time to run.  I'm amazed at how the busier I get, the more sedentary I become.  Paperwork, phonecalls, office work etc require being sat on my backside. I complain that I don't have enough time, and yet I spend so much time fuming over the fact that I have so much to do that I don't get on with actually doing the things.

Running has this magical ability to give me time.  Not only is it likely to add years onto my life (fingers crossed no buses!), but it improves the rest of the free time I have by making me more physically and mentally able to get on with life's dull stuff.  It puts me in a good enough mood to have me chuckling along to Netflix on the iPad when I'm doing the dishes, and gives me enough energy to bounce my way through whatever else the rest of my day has in store.  And weirdly, because I boing from activity to activity after I've had my five or six miles, I find these strange extra pockets of time I didn't know I had before.  I'm not sure how it works.

Obviously, I just run so fast that I manage to bend time.  That must be it.

Am not jogger. Am time machine!!

Women In Their Own Words

Oh, hi! 

What have I done this week? Oh, nothing.  Only got interviewed for a shiny new website aimed at writerly types with lady parts (Hey, I'm a writerly type with lady parts!!)!  

It's called www.womenintheirownwords.com and was set up by a journalist with shiny hair and equally swishy writing skills called Sarah-Jane Darcey ( @sarahjanedarcey to youTwittererers...tweeter...twittites...twitterators?).  

The site is aimed at established women writers and bloggers and such like, as well as other boob-sporters who want to up their game in the world of writing.  I belong to the latter camp.  What I lack in actual success, I more than make up for in desparation and attention seeking.
Women In Their Own Words is packed full of handy interviews already, despite it only going live this Monday.

It's really ver' good.  And not just because they let me warble on for a whole page about myself.  It's only a little bit because of that.  Maybe, like, 49% or so. Mm-hmm.

Oh, and it's pretty too.  Another important factor. See! See!

If you want to read a page of me talking about my favourite topic (mememeMEEEE!!) , point your clicky device.... here!

Well, that's quite enough narcissism for one day for me.  I'm off to locate some snacks and learn how to be a better blogger by trawling aforementioned website.  Next time I'm online, I'll knock your chuffing socks off, readers, with my abundance of literary know-how and...and...pizzaz! Is pizzaz still a word?  I know pizzas is.
 
....Or I might just mildly amuse you by rambling on for a whole post about what I've done to embarrass myself that day and informing you about the weird, shriveled thing I found at the back of the fridge.  Whatever.  Can't get any worse, though, can it?

[squeaks]...can it?

(Lack of) Money On My Mind

They say that people always live within their means, but I think that's cow poop.  I, like almost every other person I know in their twenties and early thirties like to perch precariously on the edge of my means, waving merrily down into the gaping jaws of Total Skintness.  And thanks to online banking, I can now beckon my friends over and show them the terrifying but inexplicably exhilerating view.

"Look, guys, I can see my overdraft limit from here!"

I live in a permanent state of poorness that ranges from "Ha, look, I got to zero! This is a good month! Drinks on meee!", all the way down to "Mustn't move in case last bit of loose change falls from pockets, and I need that for the loaf of bread I'm going to be living off for three weeks."  Totally my own fault, though. 

I live in a first world country where I am fortunate enough to have enough cash to allow me to rent, eat, and buy myself plenty of non-essential items like smelly candles (bought my first Yankee the other day and have decided that this officially makes me a grown up) and things that my cat will ignore in favor of my stuff.  I haven't made any small people with my uterus, and so all of my money is technically expendable. 

 I'm lucky that my money is my money (except for when it's money I'm borrowing from good old Uncle Natwest).  No one relies on me to keep them alive and fed, which is just as well because I'd probably just lose them under my pile of Apple products and stationary that I'll never use anyway.  I loves me a fancy blank notebook or ten. Mmm...stationary.

But the relative financial freedom my situation affords me means that I'm constantly pissing my hard(ish) earned dollahs away on junk.  I type this on a standalone PC next to the iPad I'm Facebooking on simultaneously.  Behind me sits an exercise bike shaped clothes horse, and I am charging both my Fitbit and Garmin sports watch with aforementioned PC.  Each of these purchases required vigorous excuse making, as did my bazillion other "do you really need that?" items.  

So here is a list of tried and tested excuses that I strongly feel allows me to constantly spend just beyond my means.  If you would like to join me on the yawning precipice of accidental bankruptcy (whoopsy, I slipped!), then these will get you here much more quickly.  I'll budge up and make some room for you:

1.  Am drunk.  Money is not real when you are drunk.  Like in Monopoly.

2.  It's sunny and it would be illegal to not visit a beer garden and have a "few" pints.

3.  It's the weekend.

4.  Am in a bad mood. =)

5.  Am in a good mood. >=(

6.  It's Friday, and I deserve a reward for going to work for a whole week.

7.  The purchase of this book/tv box set/expensive bit of technology that appears to do nothing but go "beep" at set intervals will change my life in such a way that I would be sabotaging my quality of life if I bypassed this chance to make said purchase.  It's my human right to own this thing!

8.  I'll use it every day, I swear!! 

9.  If you buy it on the internet, you use internet money.  Internet money is not real money.  God bless you, Amazon.

10.  I know I got paid yesterday and I'm in my overdraft already, but I'll be getting paid in another month, so it's fiiiiine...

See? All valid, logically sound arguments, I think you'll agree.  Now, I'm off to buy some tyres (essential), groceries (essential) and Lily Allen's new album (even more essential than tyres and groceries combined).  Hope your bank holiday weekends were smashing!

Cat vs Traffic

Sun is setting, roast potatoes (and in my case, a post Sunday dinner "snack" of double cheeseburger, shit ton of Pringles and a dayglo orange smoothie) are settling, and Monday is slowly creeping over the horizon like an unsavory neighbour... Another week is done and dusted.  And I have pretty much naff all to report. Nothing exciting has happened to me whatsoever.  Zilch.  Sorry, guys!

But I'll tell you who has had an eventful one.  My cat.  Walter decided that his life needed shaking up a little.  He needed a bit of excitement because his owners have done nothing but stare vacantly into the glowy box in the corner of the living room all week.  So he went to get himself some of that adrenaline he'd heard so much about (on Rude Tube, probably) ....by going out and picking a fight with a car.

Nope, that wasn't a typo for "cat". It was an actual car. Friday night, he returned from one of his jaunts (run up tree, run down tree, stare at neighbour cat, hide in shed, come out of shed, meow at door til let back in), spouting blood from every facial orifice and wearing a distinct "you weren't there, man!" expression with his one open eye.  He was barely moving and appeared to be in shock.  Also,  I've learned this weekend that blood on a white animal is much more alarming than any on one of a darker colour.  Seeing him like that was freaking terrifying! Like he'd covered himself in ketchup for the crack of it, just to distract us from the tv. Asshole.

Anyhow, the vet wasn't due to open til the next morning, and he appeared to be more shaken up than actually broken, so we couldn't do anything bar go to bed and wait and see what Saturday morning brought us. 

Because my family's cat thinks he's a Rottweiler and often comes home with chunks of ear and face missing all, "no biggie, you should see the other guy!", I wasn't too worried - assumed he'd just done a few rounds with that angry looking, chunky, vaguely cat shaped black beast that sits in our garden like he owns it (suspect is head of Birchgrove Kitty Mafia - I wouldn't mess with him, and I'm a fully grown human) and lost, for he is a fluffy lump who may or may not be made of marshmallows (and apparently ketchup).

A, however, hasn't shared a house with a cat since he was a kid and was much more concerned.  So concerned, in fact, that he allowed Princess Walter to sleep on his side of the bed.  How sweet.  At least that's what I thought until I woke up at 3am, hanging by my fingernails to the end of that bed because naturally, A now needed somewhere to sleep himself. Which was my side of the bed.  Needless to say, I was hardly guffing happiness and light the next morning.

Walter was still a snoozing bag of self pity and scabs, so away to the vet he went.  Vet diagnosed his condition as "car to the face"as opposed to kitty mafia related trauma as I'd suspected (he was also diagnosed with slight constipation - way to kick a cat while he's down) and sent him packing with a big old needleful of antibiotics.   Walt was listless and refused to eat for most of the day.  Only then did I start to panic.  Obviously, any person or pet is fine if they are missing a limb, bleeding from every available hole or talking in tongues...but NOT EATING?! That can only be a symptom of something fatal.

Long story short, several hours later, our battered hero emerged from an all-day slumber, had a MASSIVE..uhh...toilet break...and ate everything in site including my left leg and A's face and all of the furniture, so all is well again.  All that's left on Walter now is a pretty badass black eye, some scabs and a bubble of air atop his head (vet diagnosis: probably normal, but nevertheless yucky) that makes a disgusting noise like someone being slapped in the face with several fish every time he shakes his head.  That's it.

Moral of this week's story?  If you ever get hit by a car, just nap it off, do a poo and have a large sandwich.  You'll be back to waiting by the fridge for ham snacks and getting in the way of any and all productive household activity in no time.

"Chicks dig scabs"

Suitable Activities For 5am

I've just experienced a chain of events that have lead to my being wide awake at 5am - an hour I never see unless I've got a plane to catch (rare). Said chain was started by a phonecall from resident boy companion from a kebab shop up the road, requesting my driving services.

 I was told there'd be pizza in it for me.

Ass-crack-of-dawn pizza is the best kind of pizza, and I'm happy to say that two slices have been demolished in bed so far with more to follow.  I have tomato purée on my face as we speak.  Glorious.

Trouble is, I'm now wide awake, and it's so close to actual daytime that I can't see much point in going back to bed.  Resident boy is snoring peacefully on the bathroom floor and being guarded by the ever faithful resident cat, or at least being watched curiously because he's never seen either of the humans sleep in the mysterious white room where all the water comes from before:

"Human, is you okay down there?!"

Anyway, I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. 5am is one of those weird times where you can't really get up and do something productive because the sun's not up, and that's just plain wrong.  Plus, I can't stray too far from the bed just in case my body realises what time it actually is and sends me into a sudden mini coma.

Based on my scant experiences of being up and about at this strange and ungodly hour - usually instances where I've been ill, or simply not gone to bed (i.e any time when I was still a student and didn't require naps to get me through a whole day.  Actually, that's a lie.  I've always been an ardent fan of naps.  The thug life is a sleepy one), I've compiled a short list of things that are acceptable to do at this not-quite-day-but-not-quite-night time:

1.  Wander expressionless around the house with a mug of tea in one hand, picking up objects and putting them down with the other.

2.  Watch sitcoms that last no longer than 20mins (American ones, then) just incase you doze off unexpectedly.  I recommend Modern Family.

3. Document that fact that you are up at 5am on the internet because  you are so rare and special for being up at this time, and everybody'll want to hear about it.

4.  Absentmindedly stroke the cat until you realise that you've been petting your dressing gown for fifteen minutes while the cat sits apart, judging you.

5.  Think of all the awesome extra stuff you're going to be able to do with your day now that it has a few extra hours in it... until you inevitably crash out and hate yourself for making such a stupid decision to stay awake.  Idiot.

6.  Stare at the same page of a book until the words start to go all swimmy.

7. Contemplate upgrading to coffee from the tea so that your picking up and putting down of household objects can be, if not less pointless, at least more aggressive.

8.  Flick through all your Facebook photos and get all weird and emotional about how much you love your friends because you've had 3 hours' sleep, and you just, like, love them so much! Something in my eye...

9. Contemplate moving your boyfriend so that you can use your own bathroom facilities.  

10. Fail spectacularly at moving aforementioned boyfriend as you have no upper body strength.  Instead throw a blanket over him and let cat sleep on his side of bed.

11. Absentmindedly stroke cat and glare at street lights in window to catch the exact second they flick off so you can get up and get shit done.

Hope you all had a happy Easter and that Jesus brought you lots of chocolate eggs!

 It's now quarter to six, and I think I see daylight coming!

[falls into a deep sleep]

On Boy Bums & Moon Faces: A Post About Body Image

Holla!

...Never let me do that again.  I can't pull it off.  Some goes for "Yo". Much as I want to be, I am not Jesse Pinkman....  Bitch. Let me start again.

Hiiii!  You smell lovely today!  I like what you've done with your hair.  Very interesting.  Did you do it on purpsose?  Oh, what have I been up to?  Just winning the star letter prize for Women's Running Magazine!  

I subscribe to and devour the magazine every month, so I thought I'd write in and kiss some ass, because I'm a creep and wanted to show my gratitude  (apparently they don't accept locks of hair bound with your own knicker elastic.  Just letters.  Weird, huh?).  I nearly fell over when they emailed me to say that my name was going to go into their magazine and that I'd be getting free trainers for it - New Balance W870WB3 trainers, I'll have you know.  Observe my awesome modelling skills (and poor hoovering skills):
 

 

I had a day off today and decided to take these neon puppies for a spin.  Reaction to them inconclusive as I stupidly ran for four miles and had to walk/limp back another four because I had hurty feet and knees.  Yes, that is the medical term for it.  Chose at the time to blame the beautiful, glowy shoes, but in hindsight probably should've stuck to a shorter distance on my first jaunt in them.  Plank.

Anyhoo, forgetting for a moment my total lack of common sense, I wanted to write about body image tonight.  Butt kissy and saccharine as my letter was, it's how I really feel messages in the media should be.  

Growing up, I've had some screwy-as-fuck ideas about how I look, or how I expected I should look.  It's only recently, and mostly through running that I've started to come to terms with the fact that everyone thinks irrationally about the way they look at least from time to time, and that appearance doesn't matter anywhere near as much as your mental and emotional wellbeing.  I find that how I feel about myself totally depends on internal stuff like whether or not I'm tripping balls on endorphins after a good lollop in my stretchy pants. My self image rarely depends on things like whether my fringe is doing what I want it to do at the time (clue: it never is).

Seeing as people seemed to respond well in my last post to the fact that I often pee'd my pants as a kid, I've taken it upon myself to further embarrass myself for your amusement this week by compiling a list of the absurd things I thought about my physical self whilst growing up.  Here goes:

1.  The Chins:  At around age 10, I convinced myself I had a HUGE double chin -  I saw myself as some kind of hideous toad/child hybrid. My mother dearest, instead of informing me that I was ridiculous, and even if I did have a double chin that I should give no further shits about it, thought it'd be funny to tell me I could fix it by doing "chin stretches".  Cue at least a month of giving myself lockjaw by gurning in front of a mirror and sticking my bottom teeth as far out as I could. Must've looked like I was constantly on a come down from ecstasy/similar gurn-inducing drug.  Suspect this is why I still chomp in my sleep.  Because of the stretching.  Not ecstasy before bedtime.  My dreams are fucked up enough as it is.

2.  Moon face:  Also convinced self that my features were to small for my massive, egg-like face and that my eyes, nose and mouth all converged together in the middle of it like they were conspiring against my ears.

3. In my eyes, my belly button sat too low on my midriff. I don't recall why this was of any importance, but it the time, it was pressing that I figure out how to change it.  Note: I was unsuccessful at sussing out how one moves one's belly button, so it remains in the same place to this day.  Under my ribcage and above my trousers. The shame of it!

4.  Boy Bum:  Back when baggy jeans were all the rage - the ones where the big ass wallet chains hung from your pockets (and those pockets were deep enough to transport entire baguettes inside them), I was told at a house party by a boy that my jeans made me look like I had a boy's backside.  In all fairness, they did. But, being drunk on alcopops and hormones, I decided that it wasn't the jeans and that my arse was irretrievably, unforgivably mannish.  I took the throwaway comment as being 100% a major failing on my part, when I should actually have dumped my drink on that insensitive little shit's head. Not that I'm bitter. Honest, I'm not.  Bastard.

5. In my early teens, I got a little obsessed about my posture, because I'd "learned" that my shyness at school had something to do with the way I held myself.... It's what the magazines were telling my anyway. Good posture = instant social ability and oodles of confidence.  Obvs.  So, I went about correcting my apparently Quasimodo-esque stoop by shuffling to the bus stop looking like I had an ironing board stuffed up my jumper and a large candle up my bottom.  Funnily enough, I didn't evolve into a straight-spined social butterfly as I fully expected to.  Just melted into a slouchy lump whenever I got home from school and didn't have to sit like I had a bloody back brace on for the rest of the evening.

I wish I could tell you that those were the only things I worried about, but you know me well enough by now to know that that would be a bare assed lie.  And I don't want to lie to you, reader. 

Oh! Oh! And while I remember - when I was little, I also wholeheartedly believed that it didn't matter too much how I looked, as long as I magically morphed into something "acceptable" by the time I was sixteen.  I wasn't even old enough to know why this would be required of me and my boy-arsed, moon faced, weird little body by that age, but sixteen was apparently the cut-off point for when you should reach physical attractiveness.  I don't think sixteen year old me, weighed down by eyeliner and an impressive beard of spots was all too impressed when her time rolled around to shine.   

Point I've been (poorly) trying to make is that everyone has hang-ups and more or less all of them are irrational and stupid, even if we are likely to be stuck with them to some degree right the way through our lives.  

Example:  I bought night cream the other day because I convinced myself that at twenty six years old, my face is collapsing from the forehead down.  Think the irrational thought, laugh at how bloody absurd it is and move the fuck on with your day.  

Now, please excuse me, I have to go and top up on the old Q10.  I feel a sagging sensation underneath my fringe.  Good day!

 

Unleashing My Inner Child

A little while back, a musician friend of mine (yes, I have one of those. You don't get to be this cool and bohemian without a musician friend, darlings) made a sweet blog post about what childhood him would think about current day him.  You can read it hyar (but only after you read what I have to say first.  Me me me!):

http://www.andrewferris.com/child-think-adult-become-friday-500-2/

The conclusion was that remembering his inner child helped him stay true to his creative goals, which is lovely.  Inspirational.  So inspirational that I wanted to do a post just like it.  A spot of nostalgia and good humored whimsy about how creative, adorable and determined I was as a child and how it affects me to this very day.

And then I remembered that child-Becky had the capacity to be a fricking moron. 

I think I got through primary school without being institutionalized because the teachers thought I was intelligent.  More fool them.  Deceptively posh-voiced and quiet doesn't a genius make.  Some examples of said moronish...ness...

I took Disney movies literally:  Mini Becky used to truly believe that if she stuck her arm out for long enough at a time, a bird or squirrel would eventually clamber onto it and come for a stroll with her.  Little did she know that an insane, wild-haired, wide-eyed munchkin with day-glo white skin running around a park wasn't the most inviting perch for any of nature's critters.  

I believed EVERYTHING: Gullible with a capital duh.  I once scampered over to my parents at a trip to the beach, proud as punch that I'd found a fossil. A real life fossil (I was REALLY into dinosaurs.  Unhealthily so).  My stepdad's stepdad (I so modern!) had informed me that it was a special kind of dinosaur egg with a special name and I should handle the grey, powdery thing very carefully.  "Mum, mum!  I found a fossil!! Uncle Keith says it's called a turd!" [presents dried, flaky old dog poop to disgusted guardian like it's the secret to life itself].

Feathers over family:  I once ignored my grandad for an entire day for having the sheer audacity to yank me out of the path of an oncoming car and tell me off for being in its path.  He failed to understand that I was this close to catching a really good pigeon feather.  Goddammit!

If in doubt, piss your pants:  Didn't feel like being in school? Easy.  Pissed my pants.  Bored at creche? Piece of piss!  Had a piss!  Wanted to go home because mummy's friend's house was so incredibly fucking dull (who doesn't have pets to play with?! Who??) and mummy'd so far ignored all attempts at reasoning with her? Sit quietly and wait to go home.

Only joking!  Pissed my pants!  I only stopped the stealth weeing when my mum literally started to pay me a penny every time I successfully spent one at an appropriate time.  I displayed a level of manipulation that was literally taking the piss.

Suspect ambition:  I always knew that when I grew up, I wanted to be a dinosaur.  A really freaking majestic one, like a T-Rex.  But I eventually figured out in a feat of surprising logic (if my behaviour up until that point was anything to go by) that this would be impossible.  So, instead, I opted to be the world's most superest author superstar.  Until I realised that you had to actually write the words that went with the pictures.

I genuinely believed I could sing like Ariel off of The Little Mermaid:  Cue weeks upon weeks of "serenading" the family with my "haunting" melody of Ahhh-ah-AAAAAAAH-ah-ah-AAAAAAGH!!! from the bathtub.


See? Hard to muster up the desire to impress a turd handling squirrel botherer with what I've achieved so far.  

On a soppier note, despite the special behaviours I displayed growing up (and those few were just the tip of the iceburg), I'd like to think now-me and kid-me would get along pretty well.

• I've retained my passion - I can't simply like something.  If I get my claws into something that really interests me, I won't let it go - be it a hobby, an idea or an especially fluffy animal.  
• I still maintain a sense that if it's not fun, there's no point in killing yourself over it. I relish silliness. 

And if I really don't want to do something, I am safe in the knowledge that I can always just piss my pants.  

Thanks, mini-me!

Me, Rach and Dad.  I'm the grinning, chubby-faced one who looks like she's being restrained.

10 Reasons (to buy 10 Things)

Okay, so I may have been distracted by something shiny after I said I'd report back once my eBook was ready. So, several days down the line....

Holy shit, it's ready, you guys!!

-----> HERE IS THE LINK TO MY NEW EBOOK... LOOK AT IT!!! LOOK!!! <-----

 

10 Things is a collection of 10 ([gasp]) topics/lists and bits of waffle about the stuff that preoccupies my fragile little mind every day.  You may have noticed that most of my blog posts feature a list somewhere withiin them.  This is because I have an incredibly poor attention span and often forget how to communicate in paragraphs halfway through a post. This book is basically just a longer, sillier, more drawn out version of this here blog.

So if you like this here blog, then please do me the kindness of clicking on my super subtle link at the top of the page, and feed my need for attention by reading.  Because, reader, you are so very, very good at reading.  You might even get a medal after doing so for being such a stellar reader.

Disclaimer:  You won't get a medal.  Sorry.

If a total lack of medal isn't enough to get you interested, then fear not!  I also have a list of why you should buy my book of lists, so you won't be able to resist (ha, rhymes)!  I even put in pictures to make it super accessible.  One aims to please.

1.  Reading makes you smart.  This lady reads all the time, and look how smart she is:

 

So smart.

2.  You obviously have a problem and a burning need to read lists.  Otherwise, why would you be reading a list about a bunch of lists?

3.  10 Things is a paltry 77p.  Less than most Greggs pasties, so you shan't go hungry, my corned beef loving compadres!

4.  It's an eBook, so no one will see that you bought a book off of a girl with validation issues who lives on the internet.  Simply flick on your Kindle, and if anyone asks, you can tell them you're reading A Brief History of Time or similar.  Because you so smart (see above example of smartness).

5.  You can read the whole thing in under an hour.  Not because I wrote the whole first draft in a single day and had to stop because of a mild case of hurty fingers.  Honest.

6.  I will keep nagging you until you do read it.  You may even wake up one day to this:

 "Hey, friend. You reading my book yet??"

7.  In the books' ePages, you may uncover the meaning of life.

8.  Clue:  It's cake. 

9.  If you don't have a Kindle, you could download the Kindle App for free...or... use this book as an excuse to purchase a Kindle and buy it lots of fabbylous covers and jackets, like you're Paris Hilton and the Kindle is a chihuahua.  Albeit one that doesn't shit in your purse.

10.  If I save up enough 77ps, maybe I can finally pay someone to teach this poor sod how to dance:

Have a heart.  Buy 10 Things today.

A Book! An eBook!!

Because I obviously don't get enough time to prattle on about myself on here an a weekly(ish) basis, I decided to write a little eBook.

It's currently cooking in Amazon's publishing oven, and no doubt, I will make a follow up post when I hear it go ping, to let you know when it's good and ready.

Ready as it'll ever be anyway.

The book'll be a longer version of the kind of guff I put up on here.  Rambly, listy things.  10 of them to be exact.  That's why I called it 10 Things.

So if you like rambly, listy things and then number 10, then you, my friend are SO in luck! 

Laugh And A Half

Not told you yet, have I?

Last Sunday, I gone and done an 'alf. The Llanelli 'alf to be precise.  My second ever half marathon.  And seeing as I didn't post much more than "yaaay, shiny medal!" (Picture of shiny medal to follow, though. It is shiny. And BIG!) following the popping of my half marathon cherry in Cardiff last year, I though I'd write up an actual account of the day itself this time. No longer a virgin, quaking in my too-clean-to-have-been-used-enough running trainers, I'm glad I have prior experience to compare this weekend to.

As you know by now, I can only seem to communicate in lists.  I would think of so e reasons for this, but that would be another list waiting to happen.

So, behold a list of what the differences were between my first and second half marathons (I can't believe I've come far enough to have done TWO half marathons!! *squee!!!* XD)

1. Company

In Cardiff, I tagged along with an actual bus load of proper runners from a proper running club.  In Llanelli, I ran as a proper runner with a proper running club.  This is true - I have a membership card to prove   it, honest!  I have to be proper if I have a card.  Cards make things proper.  I might get them to give me a badge too, just incase people don't believe me.

The support Run 4 All mustered up was awesome.  They put up flags and some non participating runners clapped and cheered the rest of the pack on from the sidelines.  I also heard there was cake at some point too. I was either too slow to get cake, or it was all a just cruel joke to get everyone to Llanelli at 9am on a Sunday morning.

As a runner who likes to sit comfortably at the "jogging like you're crossing the road" end of the speed spectrum, I was doubly blessed because as all the faster Run 4 Allers doubled back round, I had lots of people to wave and grin at.  I was so excited that I totally missed the irony in the fact that their "well done"s were being aimed at someone who hadn't even got to where they were some half an hour ago yet.

I've said it before.  Probably:

 If you run, or want to run, no matter how slow you are,

JOIN A RUNNING CLUB, FOOL! You're missing out on loads of motivation and support if you don't!

As well as the club, I had a James, who, in running his first marathon, displayed every single bout of anger and hopelessness (followed by ecstatic elation) that I'd felt in Cardiff, and on exactly the same mile markers at which I'd felt those ways.  Both bizzarre and entertaining.  Favourite moments include:

"Three miles already! This is going to be okay!"

"Are we half way yet?"

"Why the FUCK aren't we at mile 10 yet?!"

And 

"I'm NEVER running again."

Then

"That was quite good, wasn't it?"  

Running with The Incredible Hulk made time pass quite nicely.  Didn't know my friend had so much fury to tap into under that calm and friendly surface.  Distance running brings out new sides to everyone.  If the event photos are anything to go by, my persona for the day must've been "overjoyed to be on day release".  Thumbs and grins everywhere. I don't think I blinked for five miles.

2. COLD

Cardiff:  sunshiny sunshine in the city.

Llanelli: pretty coastal path, icy wind and sideways rain.  Spent twenty minutes or so (I wish I was exaggerating) trying to slap and drag my jacket zip up my body to close it because my thumbs refused to work in such conditions.

You'll be pleased to know. I did manage to close it.

Just as the rain stopped.

3. Sprint start, Sprint Finish

Anyone who's run a distance in any race is familiar with the weird burst of energy you get when approaching the finish line, even if one of your legs have fallen off and you're dragging your arse along the floor just to keep moving so the Hell can be over with sooner.  After thirteen miles of gentle but eventually painful plodding, James and I galloped our way to victory along with everyone else crossing the finish line.

More unusually, we also galloped to the start line.  In a world turning upside down kind of event, James ended up in a half hour long men's room queue, while I had enough time to complete two whole panic wees.  

I'd already watched several men leg it out of the loos, and helped zip a smurf into a blue morph suit when James was eventually freed, and we managed to sprint to the start line just in time to tag on the the back as it moved forward.  

Fully believe I need an extra medal for the extra little bit we ran.  I'd be happy with just a small one. I could put it on the cat.

4.  =)

My goal for Cardiff was to just get round, preferably without walking. I got round, but at mile 9, I had to walk.  My body wouldn't accept any argument.    And then I had to walk intermittently til the end.  I'd underestimated how much that distance would grind on my joints and on my mental energy.  For five miles, my brain tantrummed, screamed and bawled until it was over.   I looked to so tired at about mile 11 that a nice, probably psychic lady made me eat some of her Haribo because "you look like you need it."

I loved the experience, but sweet baby Jeebus, did it take a lot out of me.

Llanelli's goal? Slow down and enjoy.  And I did. I knew I'd get around.  I knew that if I slowed down to a pace that even a tortoise on ketamine would call leisurely, I could get more comfortable and happy mileage out of my brain and legs.  It worked! I did the whole thing in 2hrs35 mins and 18secs.... Not the speed of champions, BUT, I was three whole minutes faster that Cardiff, and didn't need to stop to walk. Not even once! And I did it all with a big, fat smile on my chops!

Running is my hobby.  Why kill myself over a race I'm never going to win?  Might as well enjoy and just accept that the mile markers will come in their own time. All I had to do was keep moving.

It also helped that for most of the race, I was behind two women dressed as the Mario Brothers.  How can you not keep bouncing along with that theme song in your head?

Do. Do. Do.

Do do do do. 

do do do DO do do do do do do...

Etc.

MEDULZ!!!

Also HAT!!

Ooh, I love free goodies!!!

The Truth About Cats And Dogs

I don't believe I've ever brought this topic up explicitly on my blog before, but it's been just below the surface of many of my posts.  Several of my friends know about this leaning of mine, and accept me as I am.  

It's not been from a fear of judgement from wider society as such, although it is a subject that's been known to divide people. I'm not ashamed.  And I think it's high time that I get this out of the way before it becomes too big a burden to bear:

I love pussy.

....cats.  I love pussy cats.  I MUCH prefer them to dogs.  And my love for them isn't the sweet "I appreciate that fluffy thing's cuteness" kind of love.  If a black cat crosses my path, it's bad luck.

For the cat.

Because I will make a beeline for it and aggressively attempt to become best friends with it.  If it has the further misfortune/ stupidity to come close enough to me, it will be smothered within an inch of its nine fuzzyfuzzymuchcute lives. I am the grown up equivalent of one of those hamster squeezer children.

Picture that kid from Finding Nemo.  Remove the braces and the fish obsession, add twenty years and an intense affection for felines and you've got me.

"KITTY, WHY ARE YOU SLEEPING?!"

Many people opt for canine company instead.  While I appreciate the bouncy Funtime energy a dog can bring into a home, I also enjoy being able to give them back to their owners at the end of the day when I tire of their antics and drooling.

I feel similarly about human children.

Here is a short list of reasons why cats are infinitely better companions than dogs (and children, if you like):

1. Poop Shame:  Dogs will happily defacate with a look of either contentment or mild surprise out in the open, and not give any further shits about the (fecal) matter. 

lolpunsamsofunny.

Cats are suitably ashamed and grossed out by their own excrement, giving them a British "oh, I do apologise!  Please, let me remove it from sight in your shoe, I am disgusting. Sorry. So terribly sorry!" air about them.  

2. Affection Roulette:  cats keep you on your toes.  Unlike dogs, who love you so relentlessly that it makes you want to punch them in their soppy faces (note: I have never actually punched a dog in It's soppy face).  You never know if you're going to get kitty cuddles or a claw to the eyeball.  And that makes life much more interesting. Cats are permanently PMSing and I can fully identify with that.

"I LOVE you! I HATE you! I want to eat. Now I need to nap.  Come here so I can rip your face into tiny pieces!!  Purr purr. Nice human. FUCK YOU!!"

3. La La La Not Listening: Dogs will stare at you while you chat away to them, like you are both made out of bacon and the smartest most cleverest person ever ever ever.  If your prattling becomes too much for the cat to bear, he will promptly present you with its butt and shimmy off elsewhere until he decides you are interesting/ useful again.  This is very humbling and admirably sassy.  Humans should follow the way of the cat. 

Next time you're at that business meeting that is of no interest to you? Turn tail, buttocks to speaker and shimmy shimmy shimmy away.  You'll score a promotion for your the bluntness of your feelings. Or get fired.  

4. Fluffy Procrastination Machines:  While dogs are generally eager to please us hoomans, and, especially if well trained, happy to put in the work to impress, cats will actively encourage their owners to do less stuff.  The fact that we work seems to both amuse and annoy them.  If you have a cat anywhere in the house, even if you're nowhere near it, get out a pen and notepad and begin to write.  I'll bet you actual money that in less than ten minutes, there will be a cat ass on your notbook and paws batting at your biro.

5.  Loookadisface!!!

His name is Walter.  I love him.  He tolerates me. 

Let's Take This Outside...or...Why I Hate The Gym

Been a bit sluggish on the post front lately.  Apologies.  I fully blame my sister for introducing me to Girls (TV series, not potential same-sex mates).  My need for this programme is so all-encompassing that I just watched a full episode in between writing this sentence and the one before it.  I cannot be helped.

Sorry, another one happened.  

What was I going to write about?  

Oh, yeah. I went to the gym this week! *muffled fanfare*  

I hated it.  HATED it.  You know when once in a while, you go to an old haunt you frequented in your teen years because it was the only place in town that served booze to minors?  

Yeah, you doooo, don't give me that!  

Well, the gym reminded me of that kind of nostalgia.  You think it'll be fun.  That because you enjoyed it sooo much when you used to go there (at least you think you enjoyed it, otherwise why did you spend every weekend there?), then why don't you still go there now? 

And then you go.  And then you remember why you don't go there now.

Reason I went was because it was especially crappy outdoors, and I had ten miles that needed bashing out at some point this week.  Plus, I'd started my annual weighing up of the pros and cons about getting a membership for doing that cross training thing that I've heard so much about.  

Now, I don't want to offend any gym worshipers - I appreciate that the gym is a haven for many, and a social hub, and I admire your dedication and willpower for going regularly, but Christ, I found it frustrating to be there!  

I went along with a friend who had the same mileage to do.  For the duration of our visit, he happily bounced the miles away on the treadmill, whereas I rage-quit after half an hour (an impressive feat for me - I wanted to break the machine apart with my bare hands after ten minutes), and then half heartedly played on some machines I'm not even sure that I used correctly.

Aforementioned friend found me two hours later, sadly pedaling away on a stationary bike and starting listlessly into my Kindle.

Karl Pilkington - The Moaning Of Life, if interested.

I want to leave myself a list of reasons here of why I hate the gym, so I can avoid further bouts of murder-rage should I begin to entertain the idea of signing up again.  

So. 

 Dear future Becky:

1.  Repeatedly doing the same movement over and over whilst not going ANYWHERE makes your body angry with you, the world and everybody in it.  YOU ARE NOT A HAMSTER.  You do not require a hamster wheel.

2.  People don't like it when you start watching them because you are not moving ANYWHERE and therefore have no scenery to take in.  They do not understand that the reason behind your stares is that you want something, anything to look at that's not a wall or a frosted window.  They think you are judging them/ogling their goodies. 

3.  You don't know how 90% of the machines work.  And yes, you do look like a knob trying to figure it out just because you're too much of a proud wussy to ask the nice staff.  That thing you used to make your arms hurt a bit?  Probably for toning your butt, or face, or something.  Just give up.

4.  It frustrates and irritates you that you have zero control over what music they play in there and that every music video that matches the songs on the TV screens boasts body shapes that you will never obtain, even if you lived in the gym and lived off protein shakes and awesomeness for the whole year.  Even if you lost all of your body fat and got hair extensions, you still won't be Iggy Azalea (sp?!), because you are five foot three and she has at least sixteen feet's worth of legs... Measurement feet, not actual.  Although exotic, Iggy Azalea is not many legged spider creature.

5.  The weights area will always terrify you.  You will hover around its boundaries, wimp out, and then stare wistfully at it as you sadly toil away on the rowing machine until the clicking in your knees drives you mental.

There.  Hopefully that will save future me some time and money.  

Went for a ten miler today in weather ten times worse than what it was on the fateful gym night.  

The wind was howling, the sky was grey and it intermittently hailed and rained.  My feet kept feeling like they were being blown out from underneath me.  I had to actually climb over a fallen tree to keep going along the route I'd chosen, and several people made a point of pointing out how deranged I was for bimbling around in it.  

And I LOVED it!  A normal long run became an obstacle course, and because I was unsure of my footing, splashing through puddles (weee!), and had to keep an eye out on where my feet were landing, the time flew.  And I even got some extra distance in when my hat blew away a couple of times.

And that's another thing.  This was the first run I've ever worn a hat during - It was a revelation!  I had no idea that being buffeted in the face by rainwater and hail was optional.  Hurrah for peaked hats!

I know everyone's different, and they enjoy to exercise (or not - that's okay too.  I love a sofa as much as, if not more than anyone.  S'up, sofa surfers! *poorly executed gang sign*) in a way uniquely preferable to them.  And I reckon it's not until you try something that you hate with so much fervor that it actually gives you energy that you figure out what it is that you really, really like doing.  And I really, really like putting my stretchy pants on and lolloping off out the door and pounding the pavements, whatever the weather.  

Bring it on, wind! I don't fear you anymore!!




.....I really hope that someone skim reading this post doesn't think it's about my heroic conquering of flatulence.  That's another post entirely.