With much encouragement from my son H, I have started watching Game of Thrones, well aware that I am very late to yet another party. I hadn't realised that there would be so much nudity and rudity (I am guessing I am not their target audience!) and the frequent incidents of incest and graphic violence are disturbing. And whilst I am not yet hooked, I am sufficiently intrigued to keep watching. H keeps asking me who I like best, and warning me to not get too attached to anyone. When I said I like the wolves, he shook his head, advising caution. I am avoiding any GOT discussions on Twitter and Facebook, although I am unlikely to be touched by exposure to spoilers as even halfway through Season 2, I still have no idea what is happening, of the relationships between most of the characters, or what any of them are called. I don't really like any of them very much, apart from one who might or might not be called Tyron the Dwarf. I wish that the men didn't all look so similar, but I am hoping that it will all become clear eventually. I am watching an episode each night on my Huawei tablet, although L has warned me that I am leaving myself vulnerable to being spied upon. I am not that bothered, as if someone IS watching me watching them (and Jeremy Beadle is now sadly out of the frame), they will get very bored very quickly.
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On Saturday morning, I joined a Park Run at Northampton Racecourse. L decided that she was too tired to run with me, and didn't even make it out of bed, which was fine. It was probably less stressful for me to do it on my own. As predicted, most of the park runners, even the older ones, were quite serious and very experienced in the art of running long distances effortlessly. They weren't especially friendly, and were mostly with friends or family members, or in the zone. The people I loved most were the marshalls who were just gorgeous. They clapped everyone, even though their hands must have been about to drop off my the time I dragged my aching body around the second circuit of the course. They called out words of encouragement, and they lit up my park run with smiles that reached their eyes, and then bounced on to infinity and beyond. I wore my new leather bum bag and found it to be a helpful addition to my running wardrobe. It has plenty of pockets for my many hankies and inhaler, and does not bounce around too much when I run, unlike parts of my body.
I was grateful for the company of Mr C who came with me to the racecourse. He manages to arrange his face into a proud grin whenever he sees me run, even though I can see his stomach jolting as he stifles the giggles. I was very pleased to see him cheering me on halfway round, but I do wish that he wouldn't insist on filming my humiliation. The thought that he might ever share that fills me with deep horror. It would be worse than a sex tape!
All the way round I kept thinking that I couldn't keep on running - and although I did, it was so much harder and further than I had anticipated. I have no regrets, because it confirmed what I already knew; although I am now a proud graduate of C25K, I am not able to run 5K in 30 minutes. I had been prepared for the fact that my 30 minutes of running might not equate to exactly 5K, but I'd hoped that perhaps I might manage it in 34 minutes. So it was a big shock when I reached 35 minutes and I was still miles away from the finish. My face was redder than ever before, and 4 days later, my legs are still hurting. I ran for 11 minutes longer than I am used to and was quite near the back. But in my age category, I came 26th. So that's really all you need to know, I finished 26th in my first Park Run!
It's that time of year again, and very year my kids groan when the signs appear to announce the arrival of Moulton Festival. I LOVE Moulton Festival but in this, I am alone, perhaps because ever since we moved to Moulton in 2002, my children have been dragged along and forced to watch the dancing Morris Men and brass bands in the Public Gardens, before spending the rest of the day in a pub garden. They are all old enough to make their own decisions now and that unilateral decision is not to go near Moulton Festival with a barge pole. The thing that they enjoy now is that it gives them the opportunity to recall the events of 3 years ago, when I disgraced myself spectacularly. After a quick look around the stalls and amusements, I was left alone in the pub by Mr C, who couldn't bear the whinging kids any longer and took them home. Determined to enjoy myself regardless, I ordered a bottle of Prosecco, and the rest is a bit of a blur. I do recall lying on the field at the back of my house in the dark, refusing to go home. And later being very sick in the bathroom before falling asleep on the floor next to the toilet. Sadly, all of this was witnessed by our kids and 2 of their friends who had come for a sleepover. I frequently remind my kids that they are very fortunate to have me as a mother and not many of my friends, as if at the ages of 14. 18 and 21, they only have a single memory of me being drunk, they are quite frankly, getting off lightly. A pity it was on such a grand scale, but there you go. I am otherwise Saint Joanna of the Teetotallers, having sacrificed my own enjoyment and social pleasures for the sake of my children. I also suffer from such dreadful hangovers these days, that it is not really worth the pain.
On Sunday, we made our weekly pilgrimage to Abington Park. Mr C feels bad for dogs Paddy and Polly, as they are not sufficiently well behaved or obedient to be allowed off the lead, and he desperately wants them to be able to run unfettered. He has invested in an extra long red lead for them which is I think 100 metres long (or is it 100 yards?? I need to listen more carefully!) It is a nuisance to carry and manage, but as he frequently reminds us, he DID get 100% in his Fire Service knots and lines assessment in 1988, and an extra long lead is no problem for a man of his skills.
Sadly for him, it didn't quite go according to plan. Put simply, they done him up like a kipper, circling him and bringing him to his knees. That's gratitude for you. I think they may just have shot themselves in the paws and that the next time I see the extra long red lead, it may well be at the bottom of the black wheelie bin.
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