Fear Of Repercussions

Censorship is a terrible thing, as is blackmail, but I suppose we all succumb to it. There is so much that I would blog but I don’t, out of fear of repercussions. Daughter is always uttering the words ‘blog that and you’re dead’ whereas L tells me something tasty and then warns me ‘blog that and I’m dead’. So you can see where the violence lies in our household.

As I drive in, because it’s pub day, I try and finish my audio book, ‘Narrow Dog to Carcassonne’, but no, it’s still going. It’s the true story of two pensioners and their whippet called Jim who set out against all advice to sail in their narrowboat from Staffordshire to the Mediterranean. It was a top ten bestseller but I’m afraid I found it rather long, drawn out and actually rather dull.

The idea of them crossing the Channel in a narrowboat was fascinating and the lead up to it was gripping but once that was achieved early on in the book and without mishap, it was all downhill for the book really. I’ll be glad to get it finished, which will hopefully be tonight.



For my next book I need something a bit more controversial or at least with some death in it. I’m sure L will deliver.

I’ve had my pub lunch but we’ve also got L’s brother coming round for a curry tonight. In between I’ve got MD’s training. L says it ought to be me taking the training to burn off my lunch and make room for my curry. Suppose I could run the course while MD stands and directs from the sidelines. He'd love that, being gobby and all.

On the way to training, I collide with another cyclist. I was in the car. We have a cycle path along the pavement of the Nottingham ring road, which runs across the end of our street and the chap just came tanking along, head down and didn’t even check to see me coming out of the side road. Luckily I saw him at the last moment, stopped and only caught him with the front of my bumper, spilling him onto the tarmac. If I’d been further forward, he would have either gone over my bonnet or been bounced on to the ring road. He was lucky but, if he wanted to do that sort of speed, he really should have been on the road, where he wouldn’t have had to worry about giving way to side roads. Another reason why councils should be concentrating their efforts on on-road cycle paths and not encouraging pavement sharing.

Training goes well, MD does the big boys ‘dog walk’ raised high off the ground and he’s not fazed in the slightest. Somehow I'm not surprised. Our curry night also goes well and L’s delivered already, she's got me a new book. Blimey that was quick and it’s got a murder in it.

Well Lacquered

Protests are abound in Nottingham. City centre shops have been banned from using A-boards on the streets to advertise their premises. The council reckons that the A-boards pose a risk to people who are visually impaired or in a wheelchair. Shouldn’t the council first focus on filling in all the pot holes and fixing all the raised paving slabs and manhole covers that pose a risk to everybody, not just the people who have the misfortune to be disabled. I mean isn’t that what we pay council tax for? Then when they’ve done that, they’ll need to review the often random and/or unnecessary placements of all the other items of street furniture, most of which they’ve put there in the first place, such as benches, bollards, litter bins and even street lights, all of which can cause an obstruction. Whilst they’re at it they’ll need to look at all those outdoor seating areas, stop cars parking on the pavement, possibly remove several sets of steps and perhaps even look at flattening all the curbs. Then perhaps it’ll be time to discuss A-boards.

Apparently shops are also not allowed to use walking sandwich boards, hang signs from buildings or hand leaflets out. So it sounds like there's more to this that meets the eye, sounds a bit like the big shops influencing the council again at the expense of the little guy.

I’m in the car today, so I manage to get to the pool nice and early for a swim. It’s a bit quieter at this time of the evening or perhaps it’s just because the students have now gone home. Horrifically there’s a chap in the lane next to mine who appears to be wearing a pair of flesh coloured Speedos. He succeeds in getting himself noticed, although I'm not sure he’s getting any positive reactions.

I get home and fight my way in through a choking cloud of noxious fumes. OMG. I battle my way in, so that I can rescue the dogs and perhaps even the kids. The fumes sting my eyes and would you believe it the damn smoke alarms aren’t even going off. What a waste of money. Oh, hang on, there’s someone in the bathroom doing their hair, wielding a huge can of hair spray... panic over.

Sorry, couldn't resist and I've not upset Daughter for a while, I thought it was bit overdue.

Its disco night at the Ice Arena, L has been tempted, just for the skating apparently, and goes straight from work to join the much lacquered one and her friend. So I get to watch the cycling at its allotted time rather than in the middle of the night on video. It’s a mixed blessing because both the dogs continually nag me to take them out. I will, honest, I’m taking both dogs training just as soon as the cycling’s over.

Fining Up Nicely...

I think I've misjudged the weather a touch this morning but then I do love a spot of winter cycling, it’s just a shame it’s supposed to be July, or rather I would enjoy it if my overshoes hadn’t given up the ghost and I didn’t therefore have wet feet.

The weather has certainly gone downhill or uphill if like me you’re not partial to the heat. L likes the hot weather and describes it as 'like sitting next to a lovely warm radiator wherever you go', as well as revelling in the prospect of getting a tan. Of course I won’t tan because I’ve been permanently covered in a sheen of sweat. I only have to move a few feet and I start dripping. Oh to be cold blooded like L.

Apparently Nottingham’s famous alternative night club Rock City has applied to stage boxing and wrestling as well as concerts but the police have objected to it. Of course, some of us might be of the opinion that boxing and wrestling has always gone on there and I've still got some of the scars to prove it.

Time to cycle home and the weather’s fining up nicely. Not. It’s a shame we didn’t book a game of tennis for tonight... Yep, it’s still raining and it's thundering. I might consider taking back my criticism of the hot weather now.

It does ease off eventually and even stops as I cycle home and I get to take the dogs on the park.

Later I’m looking at some of the photos that the official photographer (no not my father) took of the Grand Prix race series. They do say that life holds no greater disappointment than seeing yourself as others see you, which is so perfectly captured in a photograph. Blimey I look old. Of course close friends, relatives and people you’re sleeping with have to deny this and say you look great but even L can’t pull that one off tonight.

Sometimes It Pays To Be Cautious

As I cycle to work this morning I pass one of those drivers who you just know isn’t paying attention. For a start, as he attempts to emerge from a side road, he has two wheels over the white line and he is staring straight ahead into space, not checking left and right for traffic, let alone bikes. I inch past him with extreme caution. Coming down the hill towards me is another cyclist, we exchange the customary greeting but then almost immediately I hear him yell out a string of obscenities. This is accompanied by a squealing of cycle brakes. I close my eyes and wait for the crunch. Thankfully the crunch doesn’t come. I turn around to see the cyclist on the pavement and still vertical, having avoided the same motorist I had been worried about. Sometimes it pays to be cautious if you wish to avoid those ‘hello tarmac’ moments.

L is working from home today which may or may not be a success, what with the dogs and both the kids now on extended vacation. She reports in that it is going well and she technically has the house to herself, both dogs are asleep and the kids out. That is until the thunder starts and she has to start consoling a quivering collie, that’s the old man by the way, not the fearless puppy. I’m the same. It’s thundering, lightning and chucking it down here as well. I’m hiding under my desk... terrified... at the thought of cycling home.

Thankfully there does seem to be a break in the weather around 5pm and I take full advantage, posting a rapid time for the journey home.

In the evening we are down the Rescue Rooms for a bit of a special occasion, the reunion tour of That Petrol Emotion. Guitarist Raymond Gorman posted on the band’s forum the question 'What if you announced a tour after 15 years and nobody came?' A good point. L and I are ticket numbers four and five, which I suppose is better than when it was originally announced but then cancelled last year, when we were numbers one and two. Not that we’re keen or anything. I know a couple of mates of ours who are going but it's a real possibility that there could be less than a dozen of us there. Where are the rest of the true believers when you need them? Problem is there weren't enough of us in the first place. The band were always lauded by the critics but never really sold many records. When they split up in 1994 I got the impression that it was more out of frustration than anything else.

Of course you should never go 'back', many do of course but things are never the same. Still, it's good to wallow in a bit of nostalgia, which is, I guess, why we are here. I couldn’t do anything else really having been there at their farewell gig at The Clapham Grand in 1994. As they say, been there, bought the t-shirt, wearing it tonight.

First though, a support band of a similar age. A Nottingham band called The Amber Herd, their slogan ‘tune in, turn on, herd up’ with yet another Craig Finn lookalike on vocals. Is there a factory churning these people out? They’re very good and put in a polished rather than a spectacular performance. It does seem to be the case that musicians get better as they get older even if they do lose a bit of edginess.

We miss the start of their set but the first track we hear reminds me of the Doors, the second of the Flaming Lips, well on a Velvet Underground day, the third L says is James, I would add the caveat that it’s James after having lunch with the Jesus and Mary Chain. The rest of the set is a varied mix too... Neil Young, Pink Floyd... oh I don’t know.



They finish with a track called 'Stage Fright', their debut single. Not bad at all. Although perhaps they’re a bit on the old side to make it big but you never know.

Rather worryingly as they leave the stage the already only half full Rescue Rooms suddenly becomes even less populated. Well at least we can kill any rumours that the Petrol’s are just doing this reunion tour for the money. I hope everyone’s just popped out for a smoke and not gone home early. Thankfully as 9.30 approaches it starts to fill up again.

The band amble on stage with little fuss. As lead singer Steve Mack fiddles with his loop tape, I realise he probably looks less haggard now that he did at their prime. Loop tape sorted, they open up with two tracks off 1990’s Chemicrazy album, ‘Blue To Black’ easing us into the livelier ‘Gnaw Mark’. It seems the boys still know how to rock and Mack having lost none of his old enthusiasm is soon bounding around the stage.

The band originally formed in 1983 from the ashes of the Undertones. The O'Neill brothers, Sean and Damian joined up with fellow Irish men Ciaran McLaughlin and Raymond Gorman and then added an oddball American front man in the shape of Mack. Sean O'Neill left after their second album and the current bassist is Brendan Kelly who joined them in 1990.



Next up, real nostalgia and a cheer greets the opening to the early (ish) single 'It's a Good Thing'. Is it really 23 years since I sat in the Student Union bar wondering what that perfect pop song was as it was played on the jukebox?

This is following by their ‘big’ hit... 'Big Decision' reached a massive number 43 in the charts in 1987. Given how well 'Big Decision' goes down it's a surprise they don't plunder its album 'Babble' for more. 'Swamp' anyone? 'Spin Cycle'? or the epic 'Creeping From The Cross', perhaps they're just not into revisiting the political agenda of that album anymore.

Their debut 'Manic Pop Thrill' fairs a little better but only because the excellent 'Lifeblood' gets an airing.

Nothing comes from the ‘disco’ experiment that was 'End Of the Millennium Psychosis Blues', an album that probably alienated a few people, sadly not even ‘Under The Sky’, although I gather it’s been played elsewhere on this tour.

Their fifth and final album, also one of their best, ‘Fireproof’ only provides two in ‘Catch A Fire’, their final single and ‘Last Of the True Believers’. No ‘Detonate My Dreams’ despite it being on the set list at Mack’s feet.

The rest of the night, that’s the last five songs of the main set and both songs of the first encore, are pulled exclusively from Chemicrazy, making a disproportionate nine songs in total. So one can only assume that the band see this as their best piece of work. Others may say that there are three other candidates for that accolade. It is probably their most commercial but it still managed to undersell its three predecessors.

All in all it’s a terrific performance all round, particularly considering they’ve been apart for so long. O'Neill and Gorman combine well with their guitars and Mack shows that he can still sing those high notes, as well as dance and drink what appeared to be a tumbler of whisky at the same time.



The crowd are appreciative but not riotous. There’s a bit of light bopping down the front but nothing too strenuous, some of those waistlines won’t permit much more these days. The band remark on how well the crowd have aged. Are they sure about that?

They are cheered back for a second encore, which is, wait for it, ‘Chemicrazy’, an obscure b-side that although it bares the same name as the album didn’t make it on to the record. It’s probably not terribly well known and it’s very difficult to get hold of, I know I’ve tried. I got it eventually, last week.

The band look genuinely pleased with the overall reaction and Mack is quickly at the t-shirt stall afterwards, shaking everyone’s hand. If this is their second obituary then so be it but if so, we'll all be the worse for it.



Afterwards, we meet up with our friends for a few beers and then we head home. I stay awake long enough to catch up on the Tour and yep, its Cavendish again.

Buy Local?

L leaps, well kind of, out of bed early to do some Hathersage training. She goes out for a 20km bike and then follows this with a 7km run. Not fazed, I take it easy and walk down to the local shop for a paper and some milk. I’m thrilled to pick up milk labelled as being from Tomlinson’s Dairy. Great I think, local produce, in our local store. Then I read the label more closely, ‘Welsh Milk’ it says... in Nottingham? Oh please. I think I’d rather buy anonymous milk from the Co-op.

Then after taking the dogs on the park, because L has thoughtfully taken Daughter out, I try to remember how the TV works and have an afternoon of sport. I watch the start of the tennis and then switch over to watch Mark Cavendish and his team win the second stage of the Tour de France with ease.



When I turn back to the tennis two hours later, it’s still going on. Andy Roddick is just levelling it up at two sets all. The final set isn’t the greatest but it’s still enthralling as they both try and get the break of serve that will win the match. After thirty games in that final set, Federer finally grinds Roddick down and takes it 16-14. I feel a bit cheated to have sat through such a marathon and Federer still won but never mind. I’ve nothing against the guy but I like to see these things shared around a bit.

In the evening, we watch a DVD, ‘Il y a longtemps que je t'aime’ better known as ‘I Loved You So Long’ featuring Kristen Scott Thomas speaking French. She plays Juliette Fontaine, just out of prison after fifteen years inside. Juliette is taken under the wing of her younger sister Léa, who goes out of her way to make her feel part of her family. Juliette seems a bit unnerved with this unexpected goodwill and at first, barely speaks at all and never mentions her life inside or what took her there. Whatever happened seems to weigh heavy on her and everyone skirting around the subject makes it worse.

She goes through the motions with a social worker and with her parole officer. An odd chap, who is obsessed with visiting the Orinoco that is until we are told that he inexplicably put a gun in his mouth and shot himself. She tries to get a job, not easy when the employers want to know why she’d been in jail but eventually she prevails. Getting back into something else she’s taken a sabbatical from for fifteen years proves a lot easier when she gets propositioned in a bar.



Right from the start, you know that there’s some big revelation on its way but the film makers keep it under wraps until the end. Details do come out but slowly. It turns out that Juliette was in prison for killing her six year old Son. Why? Well that’s the big secret. We are told that she offered nothing in her defence during her trial and that her husband testified against her.

Being a ‘child killer’ makes her a dubious guest for her sister to have in her house. Léa trusts her, which is a tremendous leap of faith considering she has two children, both adopted from Vietnam. Léa’s husband Luc clearly does not share his wife's trust, well certainly not at first, and he understandably fears leaving his kids alone with her. As the viewer, you're not sure who to side with.



As the film progresses along Juliette slowly opens up and starts to enjoy being back in the real world again. So far, so good, it’s a strong story and well told but it starts to go awry when she discloses at a dinner party that she was in prison for murder. Almost everyone assumes it’s a joke, illustrating I suppose that the French media hadn't given her case the saturation coverage it would have got over here and that nobody has had the forethought to ‘Google’ Léa’s mysterious sister who appeared from nowhere.

I feel a little cheated at the end because having been dangling on a thread for ninety minutes, wondering what the big secret was and I have to say enjoying it... bang, the film falls down a large plot hole.

Léa finds a picture of the murdered child along with a note written on the back of his medical card. Lea gets her doctor to check out the medical card and it is revealed that the child had a fatal illness, probably from birth. It appears that somehow Juliette chose to keep this secret from her husband, her sister and her parents.

Instead, being a doctor herself, she ended his suffering by injecting him with an overdose of something and then let everyone believe that she was a child murderer. For what reason? It is suggested to punish herself. For what? Saving her son undue suffering? Whilst at the same time she punishes everyone else around her by not telling them the truth. Then there’s what her fellow prisoners would have thought of her and they would of course had tried to inflict their own justice on her. She must really like self-punishment.

After her trial her parents disowned her and told Léa to do the same. Her father took this misunderstanding to his grave, in fact it probably helped kill him, and her mother took it with her into Alzheimer’s. They will never know the truth.

Even more unlikely was the fact she managed to keep her reasons secret. It’s just not plausible. Which failed A level law student defended her? Even the prosecution would have gone digging for a motive. Didn’t they perform an autopsy? Consult doctor’s notes? It’s just like in ‘The Reader’ but more so.

This implausibility ruined an otherwise good film, which is a shame because otherwise it was excellent!

The Shower Problem

I delay getting out of bed for as long as possible, for several reasons. One of them being I’m not sure my tired legs can climb into the bath tub to have a shower and if I do manage that I’m not sure I would be able to get out again.

In the end, all goes well on the shower front and I encore by cutting the grass, which exercises the dogs at the same time.

Then I settle down to watch the opening time trial of the Tour de France. Ours boys have got a lot to live up to with a GB professional team launched next year, an aim of winning Le Tour within five years and the fact that our women are already winning their version. Emma Pooley won this year’s, emulating Nicole Cooke who won it in 2006 and 2007.

In the end, the expected happens, Fabian Cancellara yet again but Bradley Wiggins comes in third. Bradley will have aspirations of snatching the lead in the next time trial, the team one, which comes on Tuesday, but first there are a couple of stages for Mr Cavendish to get his teeth in to.

My legs are still bearing up well, so we wander into town for a few jars.

Reverse Psychology

I take the bus into work with all my running kit; I shall go straight to tonight’s race, my fifth in ten days. Yeah I know, madness.

Mid-morning the heavens open and stay open. This could make it all very interesting. The BBC assures me that it’s going to be fine and sunny from 4pm... but what do they know.

L gets the bus over later, after work and after a session with her One-2-One trainer. I meet her off the bus near the Market Square in Derby, where there’s quite a crowd assembled because Derby are launching their new shirt today. Not really sure why there’s such a fuss, it’s going to be mainly white with a bit of black on it again, as it has been for the last 125 years. Well at least I hope so but I suppose you can’t take these things for granted any more.

As we walk across Darley Park to the race start, it’s odd to note that the BBC are actually right about the weather. It’s now fine and even quite sunny. I’m wearing my Nottingham Grand Prix T-shirt and I make sure that as many people as possible see it. Just so that they know why I’m going to be slow tonight. Get your excuses in early that’s what I say. L has no such hangups and has promised herself a meal out somewhere posh if she's last. Which seems an odd bit of reverse psychology, or is it?

The race starts at Haslams, the home of Derby Rugby club, on the edge of Darley Park. In the bar they are showing the tennis and I just get chance to see the final death throes of Andy Murray’s Wimbledon before I head to the start.

The race is known as the Colin Potter Memorial 10k. Colin passed away in early 2006, at the age of 40 only weeks after being diagnosed with an aggressive cancer. This is the fourth running of the race in his memory and to raise money for local cancer charities.

At 7.15pm we start and head across the River Derwent, by bridge, towards the village of Darley Abbey. We run past the temptation of the Abbey Pub, swearing that we’ll be back once we’ve dealt with the race. The punishment for not stopping at the pub is just around the corner in the form of one hell of a hill. Once scaled you turn left and arrive panting on Darley Park, where Wa-hey, it’s slippery. The organiser had mentioned something about slippery sap on the path and I hadn’t quite grasped what he was on about until now.

It’s also a bit narrow here and quite a bottleneck builds up as the course continues uphill, that is if you can get any grip and then Wa-hey again, because it’s downhill, steeply or so it seems. There's more slippery sap, lots of potholes and because it’s congested I can’t see where I’m going. Suddenly the runners in front of me part and one of those barriers that are designed to take the heads off cyclists comes towards me at a rate of knots. Seems they’re also quite adept at having a go at maiming runners too but a quick shimmy and I’m laughing in the face of danger as I slip through that particular decapitation device with only slight bruising to my elbow. I breathe a sigh of relief and count my limbs, just to double check. So I’m not prepared for the next one. I can just imagine the organisers plotting the course, thinking, if the first one doesn’t get them the second one will.

Suddenly I see the chap in front of me move to the right which reveals the next barrier to me, I watch him as he hurdles the wall next to the barrier. I either do a dive followed by a forward roll under this one or I follow him over the wall. After milliseconds of deep thought, I follow him over the wall, which doesn’t have anything nasty waiting on the other side. Phew. Safe. What’s next?

Quite a bit of flat as it happens, followed by a drinks station at 4km which is a bit early, so I don’t partake. Then at 5km we’re back at the rugby club which means we’re go to do it all over again and I’m not a great fan of two lap courses. Thankfully or not, I know what’s coming, so we slog up that hill again where I pass the leading lady, who, horror of horrors is walking up it. So even the best walk, do they? Or is she so confident she knows she’ll win anyway? Ha, well she won't beat me.

Then it’s the descent and because the field has now thinned out, I can see the barriers coming and they don’t seem too bad when you get more than half a seconds notice.

The rest of the second lap goes ok, apart from the absence of a 9km marker which is a bit disorientating.

I think my time of 42.27 was quite good. Slow for a 10k for me but it was a toughie and I had raced five miles only the day before. I go back on the course to cheer L on and see a couple of women just completing the first lap in 55 minutes which is a tad slow but I have to give them credit for getting out there, competing and running for what will be around two hours by the time they finish. Problem is L’s not going to get that posh meal unless she seriously slows down.

L comes in way too quickly and we decide not to wait to cheer the two girls at the back home which is unforgivable really but it’s already nearly 9pm and drinking time is slipping by. We pop into the Abbey for one and then have a few more in the Flowerpot.

Then we get the bus home and as L has failed in her bid to land a posh meal we go for a curry instead.

Someone Needs A New Tape Measure

L's off for an early gym, so I get to walk the boys. It’s already hot and the three of us probably look like a triumvirate of old men as we wander listlessly down the street.

When we get back there's still no sign of Son, who’s been out on an all-nighter but has vowed to be home in time to do his papers. Though he's still got half an hour or so before his deadline.

It’s the final race of my four tonight, five miles around Colwick Park. I intend to run very slowly, in fact it’ll probably be dark before I finish. Well perhaps not that slowly but I quite fancy doing a 10k in Derby tomorrow. Yes I know, yet another race but I’ve wanted to do this one for a while, it’s just a shame it comes at the end of the Grand Prix fortnight.

L wants me to be slow because she can’t make it in time for the start but hopes to get there in time to see me finish, she’s running down from work. She's promised herself that if she runs to the race she can have some nice chilled wine afterwards. Ooh, chilled wine, in this heat I’ll be taking it off her and pouring it over my head.

It’s too hot again to bring the dogs, so they have to stay at home, not that they look too bothered. They both still look a bit listless. I consider asking Daughter to come and dog-sit at the race but if she held the dogs they might drag her round the course after me or worse, Doggo would drag her after me, whereas MD would probably drag her in the opposite direction after some imaginary cat, which would be a grisly scenario. The risk of being ripped in two by a couple of daft collies doesn’t bare thinking about.

Again they’ve put the start on a narrow footpath, when they have a whole field at their disposal. Don't understand that. So I start at the front and then let all the fast ones pass me. 6.40 for the first mile is still a bit quick and the 12.00 for two miles is... err, hang on, that’s wrong. There’s some seriously bad mile marking going on here. I couldn't run that fast if I sprinted a mile, stopped my watch half-way, had the rest of the day off and then sprinted the second mile the next day.

At half way, they’ve add a water station because it's hot but then tell everyone not to take any unless there are really desperate. So I feel a bit naughty when I take a cup and pour it over my head but I was really desperate and they don’t have any nice chilled wine.

The mile markers seem to have sorted themselves out by the third one but then it takes me over nine minutes to run the fourth mile, I couldn’t run that slow... if I walked, well perhaps a slightly exaggeration. Then it takes me a blinding four minutes to do the last mile, gosh now that really must have been some seriously quick sprinting and I didn’t even know I was doing it. I think someone needs to get a new tape measure.

My time is more or less the same as the five miles I ran recently at Long Eaton, which was slow but I was really knackered after that and tried hard all the way around, whereas I took this one quite steady. So I'm quite pleased really and L is there to meet me at the line, which is always a nice boost.

Now to collect the t-shirt for doing the race series. Each year the t-shirt's are different colours and I reckon we’re due green or possibly grey this year. Neither of which sets the pulse racing. In the end it’s boring white but with red trim like a retro football shirt from the seventies. It’s not brilliant but it could have been worse I suppose.

A lot of runners have cycled here, perhaps that’s what my challenge for next year should be, to cycle to all four races. Not that that would do much for my times but it’d be an interesting project.

Now for that wine.

Perfect Cycling Weather

The plan was to cycle this morning but it’s raining when I get up. So I go for the bus option instead. At which point the sun immediately comes out. Bloody annoying weather, its perfect cycling weather now and there was a row of bikes at the office when I arrive. Admittedly from those coming shorter distances and who could make a later decision. Mind you, my legs are stiff and it took me all my time to walk to the bus stop, so perhaps it was for the best.

L takes advantage of the 'good' weather and runs to work, carrying her work files. There’s nothing like making it difficult and all on old trainers. I’ve promised to take her up to the running shop at the weekend so that she can get some new ones. She’s says she’s lost all her bounce. I won’t pass comment on L's bounce.

Kids are so hip these days, err, well, so they say. Daughter is actually the last one in our family to sign up to Facebook. Son’s been on a while, although he hasn’t mentioned it and none us dare try and ‘friend’ him in case he refuses. Personally, I don’t actually like Facebook much, I find seeing everyone else’s non-news a bit depressing but the site does have its uses.

Andy Murray wins with ease today and all whilst we can watch it at work.

Tonight’s trainer is ill, so Doggo’s session is cancelled and a ‘do your own thing’ session replaces it. This is good in a way because it means I can put MD through his paces as well. When we get there, it seems that not many people want to do their own thing because there’s only three of us there whereas a trained session would have pulled in 20+. Never mind, all the better for MD, who finally gets his baptism with the red and white collie, who's a Crufts team mate of Doggo’s but not one he has on his Christmas card list. MD chases after this collie, hoping to play and gets a right telling off, stroppy collie style. Wonder if that’ll teach him. Probably not.

What A Nice Day For The Eton Mess

So is L feeling fit after her mega training session yesterday? Not sure. When she finally replies to my emailed question, she admits she’s been kipping on a pile of files. Ah, that’s always an indication of a good training session.

She’s says she seriously considering tucking into the meringues she’s bought for my post-race Eton Mess tonight to boost her energy levels. That’s a dessert by the way and not something kinky involving confectionery. According to Wikipedia, Eton Mess may have been invented by a Labrador, who accidentally sat on a picnic basket. I wonder if they picked the dog hairs out before they sampled it?

Today's shopping challenge. Daughter has asked for pesto, a green one. Unfortunately there are lots of green ones on the shelves at Sainsbury’s. L advises that she'll probably like any of them and to 'just close your eyes and reach out'. Sounds like a good way to get arrested.

In the evening it’s race three of the Grand Prix, the Wollaton Park 5k. So local that I can just walk across to it. I feel well recovered from the White Rose and have decided I’m racing this one. Full race pace. L and the dogs come across to support and even Daughter is on the park, although for unrelated reasons but she ends up kind of supporting me, which is cool.

I always target certain people in these races, usually women, because well, apart from the fact I don’t like being beaten by our fairer sex, they’re easier to recognise and pick out than the men. For example only five women beat me in the first race this year but seventy men did and it’s a bit difficult to remember the identity of seventy men. Today however the person I select for special treatment is a man. He’s beaten me in both races so far but because he’s quite distinctive I know from memory that I usually beat him. So he’s the ‘rabbit’ for tonight. He’s also over 50, so beating me should be illegal anyway.

As we line up at the start I’ve already got dessert on my brain, ‘Hello hurrah, there’s a price to pay, to the Eton Mess, Eton Mess’ as Paul Weller once said, or something like that.

Then we’re off and I pass my target early on. ‘Hello hurrah, cheers then mate, it’s the Eton Mess, Eton Mess’. That’s it really, game over, so he’s not much of ‘rabbit’ for me.

Not only is Wollaton race three this year when it’s usually race two but we have a new course as well. It seems more on path than grass which makes it a little quicker but to counteract that it seems to be hillier than usual or perhaps that’s just my imagination.

I beat my ‘rabbit’ by over a minute and record a PB for 5k, in fact about 20 seconds up on my old best, albeit on a dubious course which may have been nowhere near 5k but my position is good so I’m pleased.

So home for dessert. ‘Hello hurrah, what a nice day for the Eton Mess, Eton Mess’