5 Peaks Training Log #1 (and a plea for sponsorship).

So, we now have the link for Team Scotland’s Five Peaks sponsor page.

There’s also a fancy, schmancy text donation thingy: text RSSC50 plus an amount (i.e. RSSC50 £5) to 70070.*

Y’know, if you’re feeling generous… *winkyemoticon* Continue reading “5 Peaks Training Log #1 (and a plea for sponsorship).”

Who the **** am I?

I have just purchased walking boots.

WALKING BOOTS.

In my defence, I bought the only pair which had pink in them.

In my [what’s the opposite of defence?] I also bought waterproof trousers, gloves and a thermal hat.

“Why?!” I hear you cry. Continue reading “Who the **** am I?”

FAB1 Million.

I meant to write this on Friday, but I’ve had a bit of a mental weekend.

Not good mental, sadly, moving back into my parents’ house mental. More on that later.

Anyway, Thursday night. There’s not much that would get me to agree to work on a Thursday night. Specifically, at 9.30 on a Thursday night, when I’ve been up since 4.30 and am due to get up at the same time the following morning. Continue reading “FAB1 Million.”

Not blogging about that thing I was told not to blog about.

If someone says to you, mid-conversation, “PLEASE don’t blog about this”, does that mean you have some sort of problem?

That’s a rhetorical question.

Don’t all tell me I have a problem.

I know I do. Continue reading “Not blogging about that thing I was told not to blog about.”

The wagon is a dot to me.

Yep, I’ll hold my hands up. I’ll admit it.

I have fallen off the wagon.

Quite spectacularly.

It all started last Thursday, when I decided to skip that afternoon’s planned exercise (swimming), as I’d been at work for eleven hours and quite frankly, exercise was the last thing I felt like doing.

Instead, I went round to Number Three’s, who cooked me a delicious Thai prawn country (not actually that bad), followed by various bits of chocolate (actually that bad).

On Friday, I took advantage of (read: stuffed my face with) the free pizza on offer at work, then skipped the gym in favour of a much-needed afternoon nap. I ate a healthy-ish dinner, washed down with copious amounts of red wine, several rum and diet cokes (diet!), and finished the night with a roll and chips in bed. Sexy.

Saturday consisted of hangover food, before going out for dinner – mussels; posh bangers and mash; and of course, wine. And, er, more when I got home. Although I fell asleep before I could finish my last glass. I’m getting rusty in my old age…

On Sunday, I did actually go to the gym. But then I ate an enormous Chinese takeaway for dinner.

My alarm didn’t go off on Monday morning, so I woke up two hours late. The resulting stress meant that I ate a Snickers and a packet of crisps for breakfast. I then set off for Manchester, where we had a work seminar on Tuesday, stopping at Gretna for a Burger King on the way. Six of us went to Zizzi’s for dinner – a fairly healthy seafood risotto, accompanied by a slightly more calorific bottle of white wine (each). We then went to a pub where I ordered another glass of white wine, but was actually given a plastic tumbler of what may very well have been cat’s piss. I moved on to vodka, but it’s the cat’s piss I’m blaming for the night of throwing up which followed. I was going to make a comment about that at least reducing calorie intake, but I don’t want to be seen in any way to endorse eating disorders. So I won’t.

The only way to describe Tuesday is thus: a struggle. Tesco Express in Manchester didn’t stock Irn Bru (failsafe hangover cure of Scots everywhere), so breakfast was Diet Coke and crisps; then coffee and pastries. I managed two potato wedges from the buffet lunch laid on at the (scintillating) work event, and stopped at Gretna again on the way home, where I stocked up on Irn Bru (thank the Lord), salt and vinegar Discos (my second guaranteed hangover cure) and ice cream (my third). A microwave curry finished off my day of hangover shame, and I was in bed by 8.15.

This morning, a stranger on t’interweb commented on a photo of me saying I “need to hit the treadmill pretty hard”.

Ouch.

I’m off to the gym.