Keep on running...well, start at least...

'Sometimes,' I said to Andy yesterday, 'when I am walking briskly, as is my wont these days as walking is my main mode of transport since we sold our second car to buy the Eglu and...'

'Get to the point, darling,' said Andy, hands poised over his computer keyboard because I have interrupted him at a VERY IMPORTANT point in his virtual reality 'brave adventurer-creeping-round-a- sinister-castle-trying-to-avoid-monsters' game.

'I'm just providing a bit of back story for any readers new to my blog,' I said.

'Ahem,' said Andy, and I think he gave a slight nod towards his computer screen, but I might be wrong, could have been an involuntary tic like the time he told me to 'Sssshhh,' during an episode of Doctor Who. I mean, it was Christopher Eccleston too, for heaven's sake, not even David Tennant. Even I would have 'ssshhhed' me if it had been Tennant. But Eccleston????

Andy was, by now, staring at the ceiling and whistling.
'You'll never get off the ground with those little wings,' I said, pointing to his virtual reality computer character. 'I'd go for much bigger ones if I were you. More Archangel than Cherub. Anyway,' I continue, because although Andy is the most patient person I've ever met, even I could see he was getting a bit twitchy at my procrastination, 'sometimes when I am walking briskly, I feel like breaking into a bit of a run.'

Andy stared at me.
'Is that it?' he said.
I stare back.
'Isn't that enough?'
'I suppose,' said Andy.
'Cup of tea?' I asked.
'Ssshhh,' said Andy. (He didn't really say this. Wouldn't dare, not after the Doctor Who incident. I just added it for comic effect.)

Anyway, Andy appeared an hour or so later. I didn't ask if he'd overcome the monsters in the sinister castle because apparently these virtual reality games can go on for YEARS before any satisfactory outcome is achieved. A bit like real life only without bills, death and having to empty the bin when it's full.

'Let's go running together,' said Andy. He is clutching some sheets of A4 in his hand.
'What? Now?' I say, thinking his timing was very inconvenient as I was, by now, employed in IMPORTANT activities myself i.e watching Goldie Hawn and Bette Midler on the telly in 'The First Wives' Club.' Bette Midler and Goldie Hawn are two of my favourite actresses. In fact, I would like to have Midler's wit and Hawn's figure. Then I could be Bette Hawn. Or Goldie Midler. Or Boldie Hitler. Or Gette Hawnier...

'Well, not NOW,' said Andy, interrupting my silent ramblings, which was a bit unnerving to say the leastbut probably saved me from myself. 'In say, a month's time when I've got myself a bit fitter. I've found a beginner's training programme on the Interweb. I'm going to laminate it.' And he waves the pieces of A4 at me.

'Okay,' I say. 'Let's start running together.'

The rest of the afternoon is spent in a flurry of extensive research into running programmes (walk a bit, jog a bit, walk a bit, jog a bit more), avoiding injuries (don't start running in the first place), running shoes (stand in wet feet on a bathroom carpet to discover your foot type. I am 'normal arch', or in running parlance 'transitional'), support bras (hammock-sized moulded capsules), what to eat, what not to eat, calories burned, Aertex fabric, heart monitors (HEART MONITORS????) etc etc. It's a whole new world!
And I was very excited to discover there is a running programme called 'Fartlek!' It seemed quite complex so I think Fartlekking will have to wait a while. Or at least until we can make it down the hill to the park without collapsing in the gutter.

'Shall we register for next year's London Marathon?' said Andy, as he stood in the kitchen laminating his training plan ready to take to the gym.
I narrowed my eyes in thought (and imaginary pain.)
'Maybe the year after?' I suggested.

We looked at each other, both cuddly and amply curvacious, both a bit too fond of homemade cake and sitting on the swing in the garden reading books.

'Yes, maybe the year after,' we agreed in unison.

Jogging

It's a lovely day - crisp, cold and frosty. The kind of day that makes you glad to be in England, with all the traditions and quirkiness that make us unique as a nation (that's what I think; I don't yet have a flag pole in my garden but give it time!). So me and the hens decide to go for a jog in the park. Mrs Pumphrey got some day-glo pink leggings with matching headband for Christmas and she's rather keen to show them off. So away we go, with the exception of Mrs Miggins who flatly refuses to run anywhere and insists we pull her along behind us on the toboggan. 'I can't run at my age,' she says. 'You're one year old,' I say, as I tuck her into the toboggan and wrap a tartan blanket around her knees.' 'In human years,' says Miggins. 'But in chicken years it's much older.' 'How much older?' asks Mrs Poo, who is thinking she might like to ride in the toboggan too, on account of her bendy toes. 'I don't know exactly,' says Miggins. 'You'll have to ask Andy. He's a vet. He knows about these things.'

We set off in convoy, bouncing along with enthusiasm. Mrs Slocombe has eaten a lot over the last few days and has a very full crop so I suggest she wears a uni-bra to minimise bounce. 'You'll end up heading south in years to come if you don't protect your ligaments whilst you're young,' I warn, hoisting up my own treble re-inforced canvas brassiere with extra wide straps. 'Believe me, I know.' 'Heading south?' yells Miggins from the toboggan. 'Who's heading south?' 'Nobody,' I yell back. 'You just hush your beak. If you want to join in the conversation you'll have to get up and run with us.'

We do three laps of the park before I realise I am pulling a toboggan containing four hens and running on my own. They're chatting away, snuggled under the tartan blanket and there is a distinct smell in the air. I turn to face them. I hope I have a sufficiently cross look on my face. 'What's going on?' I demand. All four hens look at me. Steam is rising from beneath the tartan blanket. 'And where is that steam coming from?' I demand. The hens have the decency to look a bit sheepish. 'It's cocoa,' volunteers Mrs Pumphrey. 'Cocoa?' I say. 'Where did that come from?' 'Thermos, 'says Miggins. 'I'd offer you some only we've drunk it all.'

'Oh that's great,' I say. 'We were all supposed to be having a healthy run in the park, getting some fresh air and sunshine and you've all been sitting in the toboggan drinking cocoa.' There is a crunch and I see the edge of a Kettle crisp disappear into Mrs Slocombe's beak. 'And are those my barbacue Kettle crisps?' I shriek. 'Calm down,' says Miggins. 'And let's face it. Crisps are the last thing you need at the moment. We're doing you a favour by eating them for you.' 'What do you mean?' I splutter. 'Well, let's just say turquoise velour isn't doing your view from the back any favours,' says Miggins. ' 'Meaning?' I ask. 'Meaning you've got a fat arse,' says Poo.

So you see, just when I thought I could abandon one of my three traditional resolutions, the wisdom of hens, it seems, dictates otherwise.