|My companions try to comfort me|
Sit, lie down, sit, eat, cough, blow nose, take painkillers. Repeat. All day long. Feeling fat and achey
Ill, but not ill enough, it seems. I have a nasty cough, ache and feel a bit hot and out of sorts. However the thought of running, walking, or even a spot of pilates on the mat seems out of the question. I snoozed through Parkrun event, ate a large bowl of cereal, dressed and washed hair and allowed myself to be driven to Morley College to watch daughter sing, then came home and made myself an elaborate, if healthy lunch, with a multiple biscuit chaser. I cannot stop eating. The Pollyanna in me says this is because my body knows what it wants and it wants biscuits, for healing. The bitter and twisted self-loather tells me I'm just laying down belly fat and bra-strap overhang so that I will look even plumper in my race vest, eventually give up trying to be lean and swift and turn into Mrs Lardo.
I have to pull myself together. In two days' time I need to bound gazelle-like up the stairs of Tower 42 and the way I feel right now, I wouldn' t be able to do it if my life depended on it. I wish I could be more picturesquely ill, or at least have a lack of appetite to complement the ack of exercise. I could be palely reclining against my silken pillow, my high cheekbones sharpening as my beloved tries and fails to tempt me with a thin consommé, my long fingers plucking fretfully around the coverlet. Instead I am shuffling, sniffling around the house, making frequent forays into the kitchen for tea and toast and feeling my trouser waistline cut into my spare tyre.
When I feel well, I will continue the training seriously quest, and use this excess fuel to maximise speed and mileage. Oh yes. Atchoo.