I'm sorry it has been a little quiet over here. Weekends are normally prime slobbing around and blogging time but for various reasons, not this weekend. First, to get that title out of the way, I have a sore foot. Yes, I now feel like a real runner as I have picked up a wee injury. A sore right foot, just at the heel. People on the splendid realbuzz.com website where I chatter inanely about running (even more than I do here, believe it or not) have remotely diagnosed this as plantar fasciitis. Or, as I prefer to refer to it, planetary fashionitis (which I like to imagine as a condition recognisable by the incredible urge to go out running dressed as Sarah Brightman in her "I lost my heart to a starship trooper" days.)
So I have not been running for a wee while, hoping it will respond to stretching and massaging and rest and muttered prayers. It is feeling a bit better now so fingers crossed it will be okay for me to resume preparations for the run on 4 May. Less than a month to go. Gulp.
The children spent the latter part of last week with my parents in Cumbria visiting my brother and his family. Husband and I were working and could not go. It has been suggested that this was a cunning ploy on my part to interfere with my brother's training for the race but this is absolutely not true. I am not that devious. Or smart. The kids had a great time with their cousins, including a re-run of a game they invented last year at Centerparcs which goes by the curious name of "Something off the trolley, dears?" Not sure of the rules but it involves a lot of jumping on beds and screaming.
Husband and I had dinner out on Wednesday, dinner out of M&S on Thursday (yum!) and a long walk on Friday to work off some of the big lunches we had had out that day. On Saturday morning we had the luxury of going out for breakfast. Breakfast that we did not have to cook or clear up after. I had eggs benedict because if someone else is going to make hollandaise sauce for me, I will not say no. It was delicious. And decadent.
Then we went shopping which was less fun and decadent but needed to be done and in the afternoon, we went to pick the boys up from my parents in Livingston. Then the evening was, of course, devoted to Doctor Who's triumphant return to our screens. Please tell me I wasn't the only woman thinking "If those pills really existed, you know, I might take them. Even if it did mean small aliens bursting out of my thighs in the wee small hours. Weight loss and a cute pet all in one go!" We then had to watch Doctor Who Confidential and promise PROMISE to record some old episodes of Doctor Who for First Born before stapling the children into bed for the night. And do you know how I know that First Born is a true die-hard Dr Who fan? I caught him on Sunday morning watching the first ever Dalek adventure. In black and white, with William Hartnell as the Doctor. No CGI, no special effects, no groovy music, no colour, and he was still standing rigid in the middle of the living room trembling with excitement as the end of the episode cliffhanger approached. That's devotion, that is.
Sunday we spent in Troon, having battled through the snow to find it is actually spring in Ayrshire. We were through visiting my father-in-law. He hasn't been in the best of health recently and we always worry about him because he is on his own and we can't do as much for him as we'd like, seeing as we are on the other side of the country (and he stoutly maintains he is fine and doesn't want to move). It was a relief to find him in good form and pretty perky.
And now it is Monday and we are back into the throes of work and what have you. Weekends just don't last long enough.
PS I haven't forgotten about The Apprentice. I am still recovering from the Medusa-like glare of Jenny from last week and have not been able to marshal my thoughts adequately. Also, still slightly bemused by Raefe. Is he real? Do people somewhere really talk like that? Who created his hair? And how on earth do you pronounce his surname?