Become What?

Muesli and banana.

I walked past a running shop today called "Run and Become". Become what? I don't think you should be allowed to be so exigent and vague all at once. Run and become a svelte and be-spandexed wonder in our dayglo, breathable wares? Run and become rickety kneed (for this is all I seem to have achieved). Run and become king of the world?

It is a shop name that is at once aspirational and deflating--conjouring images of one's powerful self bounding capapbly across the land, until self knowledge abounds, and an image of one's red-faced, sweaty personage flashes through the mind. Run and become a puce and perspiring wreck.

Cake is Part of My Life

Rice crispies and raspberries

It turns out that one can refer oneself to a physio these days, which made my visit to the GP this morning -- on account of my gyppy knee(s) -- rather unnecessary. I always thought of GPs as the gatekeepers to physios, holding back all but the worthy.

I didn't so much meet St Peter today as a cheery lady who sympathised that my knee bother must be very frustrating "if running is part of my life." I told her that cake is part of my life, and that the running is really just mitigation against cake. She suggested cycling instead.

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Forty-Ninth

Blueberry wheats (!) and strawberries.

Today has been a mixed day for self control. I got up early and went for a run -- the first in ages. Well done. I also ate an entire bag of sour cherry sweeties. Not so well done. My tongue hurts and the sweets  alone exceed the "recommended daily amount" of sugar by 80 percent.

Must do better.

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Fifteenth

Doppelganger shreddies and banana.

Just a quick post this evening as I have lots to do tomorrow morning: namely, going for a long overdue run; buying some more yoghurt (turns out the stuff I've been eating is a month out of date); and voting. I encourage you all to give your second vote to the Greens.

Breakfast the Eleventh

Muesli, yoghurt and raspberries. 

I wish it was spring. It's been so long since I could feel my toes. And I'm tired of having to dress like an arctic explorer at bedtime. (I've been ever so slightly afraid of my hotwater bottle since I woke up with a blister on my tummy one morning).

The lovely people at the BBC tell me that it's going to be -2º at run time tomorrow morning. I wonder whether I oughtn't to whip out my Russian hat. It would probably keep my ears warm. And might, if any PETA people are out, cause me to run faster…

Breakfast the Eighth

Toast with pear and apple spread again. 

Who mandated that we all be depressed today? The overriding feeling for me was one of hunger. Other than that, I've been feeling positively chipper.  Perhaps it's endorphins. I went running today (with my partner in crime) for the first time in actual whole months. I'm delaying going to bed because I know that the now slight pain in my legs is going to become an inability to move by the morning.

At least The Guardian didn't buy into the Blue Monday thing. Apparently Ben Goldacre debunked the myth some years ago. Good old Goldacre. It makes me more happy than is reasonable that he calls Gillian McKeith (who must surely be in cahoots with some Mung bean producing mogul) the Awful Poo Lady. I can't say I've ever paid particular attention to Gillian McKeith; but she's one of those people who somehow insinuates their way into your consciousness.