Today is the day I decided to run a marathon. Actually, maybe it was yesterday? Or perhaps not till tomorrow? I know it was the weekend I was staying with my sister Rona and her family down south in Oxford but I’m writing this five months later and can’t quite remember the exact day or time she TRICKED ME INTO AGREEING TO DO IT, MAKING ME SIGN A PACT WITH THE DEVIL IN MY OWN BLOOD IN THE PROCESS.
I’ve never wanted to run a marathon before. EVER. Even after my brother Stuart ran the Glasgow marathon in the 1980s in some ridiculous time of an hour and a half, or something. I’ve always thought it was a pointless waste of effort and time; time that could be much better spent in any number of preferable ways (head-shaving and tin foil-chewing spring to mind), not least of which is lying in your bed with a hangover on a Sunday morning in April watching the “race” on television as other idiots shuffle round London in ridiculous costumes trying to avoid getting interviewed by John Craven / Hazel Irvine / That Hot Blonde Who’s Married To The Scottish Rugby Player.
But all that changed at the beginning of last year when Rona decided to run the London Marathon in support of the National Autistic Society (NAS). During 2007, Rona’s beautiful wee son Tommy was diagnosed as autistic and she and husband Al received some wonderful advice and support from the NAS. I don’t think she’d mind me saying that she was never the most sporty of individuals (unless Soho bar-hopping, red wine guzzling and drinking-The-Signals-under-the-table can be categorized as sports) so to see her go from a standing start (literally) on January 4th to completing the marathon on April 13th was truly inspirational.
This, of course, was when the sibling sorcery began and she first of all tricked twin brother Keith into signing up for the Chicago marathon in October, informing me of his agreement with a conversation that went something like…
“You realise when Keith does Chicago, you’ll be the only one NOT to have run a marathon? It’ll be like that time you dropped out of university and had to spend the next 20 years looking at all our graduation pictures at Mum’s; only this time it’ll be marathon medals. Is that what you want?.. eh?.. Eh?.. EH?”
No. Indeed. That is NOT what I want and in tapping into the one thing that might actually provide some motivation for attempting this madness, she has unleashed the big brother beast which WILL NOT REST, day or night, until rightful ‘golden child’ status has been reinstated with a lavish ceremony during which a bejewelled crown will be gently and reverently placed once again upon my golden haired head. I am off. And “running”… right after I finish this cigarette…
I’ve never wanted to run a marathon before. EVER. Even after my brother Stuart ran the Glasgow marathon in the 1980s in some ridiculous time of an hour and a half, or something. I’ve always thought it was a pointless waste of effort and time; time that could be much better spent in any number of preferable ways (head-shaving and tin foil-chewing spring to mind), not least of which is lying in your bed with a hangover on a Sunday morning in April watching the “race” on television as other idiots shuffle round London in ridiculous costumes trying to avoid getting interviewed by John Craven / Hazel Irvine / That Hot Blonde Who’s Married To The Scottish Rugby Player.
But all that changed at the beginning of last year when Rona decided to run the London Marathon in support of the National Autistic Society (NAS). During 2007, Rona’s beautiful wee son Tommy was diagnosed as autistic and she and husband Al received some wonderful advice and support from the NAS. I don’t think she’d mind me saying that she was never the most sporty of individuals (unless Soho bar-hopping, red wine guzzling and drinking-The-Signals-under-the-table can be categorized as sports) so to see her go from a standing start (literally) on January 4th to completing the marathon on April 13th was truly inspirational.
This, of course, was when the sibling sorcery began and she first of all tricked twin brother Keith into signing up for the Chicago marathon in October, informing me of his agreement with a conversation that went something like…
“You realise when Keith does Chicago, you’ll be the only one NOT to have run a marathon? It’ll be like that time you dropped out of university and had to spend the next 20 years looking at all our graduation pictures at Mum’s; only this time it’ll be marathon medals. Is that what you want?.. eh?.. Eh?.. EH?”
No. Indeed. That is NOT what I want and in tapping into the one thing that might actually provide some motivation for attempting this madness, she has unleashed the big brother beast which WILL NOT REST, day or night, until rightful ‘golden child’ status has been reinstated with a lavish ceremony during which a bejewelled crown will be gently and reverently placed once again upon my golden haired head. I am off. And “running”… right after I finish this cigarette…
