The Edinburgh Marathon 2010

Photo credit: Y Luu


Ok , so I am full of shit.

It turns out that I am a runner. A few posts back where I said I wasn't. Rubbish.

You know how I know this? How did this dramatic turnabout happen in a matter of days?

I ran a marathon. In Edinburgh. On the hottest weekend ever recorded in May in Scotland. It was brutal. I suffered. But so did 13,999 other people.

It seems like a surreal dream and I would think it so apart for the fact that I am limping badly and have a very strange tan.

Memories of the pain are fading already. All I remember is rounding the corner and seeing the finish line, 200 meters ahead of me. The end that I had longed after for 42 kilometers had finally come. Time seemed to slow. Pat Benatar started to sing, We Belong, on my ipod:

We belong to the light, we belong to the thunder..

Adrenaline coursed through me, propelling me to sprint. My breathing became jagged.

No, I thought. Relish It.

So I slowed down and took in the shimmering crowds and wall of noise. The other runners hurtling like coloured bullets past me. The blue sky and hot sun. The feeling of freedom, strength, lightness and joy as my legs carried me over that threshold; where I would never have to run again if I didn't want to.

That's what I remember.

Is that how I know I am a runner?

No.

I know because 48 hours after putting my body through that hell, I find myself thinking that it would be nice to go for a bit of a run.

The Cat's Whiskers

There are cat people and dog people in this world and I am the former.

I like dogs. But I wouldn’t want one. Not even a cat-sized one.

Cats on the other hand, are to me, the very raison d’être of life.


Which makes it all the more sad that I have been cat-less for nigh on seven years. Seven long, lonely years….

This exile is self imposed for you see, I have a bit of a history. See for yourself:

Fluffy - Orange tabby. Circa 1980. Grew really fat on Chinese food. Ran away with Flossy (see below)

Flossy - Silver tabby. Circa 1982. Stray that came and stayed.”Disappeared” on the same day as Fluffy (see above)

Misty – Grey shorthair. Circa 1985. Run over by heartless driver who left him on roadside. Buried under Mum’s rose bushes.

Otto – Grey shorthair. Circa 1986. Spooked by vacuum cleaner. Ran outside. never came back

Max – Ginger and white shorthair. Circa 1991. Had a long and happy life with my parents whom I left him with when I moved out. Put to sleep last year after being diagnosed with terminal cancer.

Moush – Black shorthair. Circa 1995. Another one I left with my parents when I moved overseas. Still alive. Speaks Chinese.

Rufus – Black longhair. Circa 2000. Another one I left. My parents said No More so my dear friend and her family welcomed him into their home. Human being in a cat body. I miss him the most.

Recently I could take it no more. I applied to Battersea Dogs and Cats Home to volunteer as a Cat Socialiser. What this means (before you think it involves hanging out with felines on a Friday night with a gin and tonic), is someone who spends time acclimatising cats to human company. Cats that are brought to the shelter may have been subject to tough circumstances which makes them surly, mistrustful or just plain psycho. What the Cat Socialiser does is hang out with the cat so that over time, the cat learns that human beings are Good and can be Trusted. Before they get adopted out to said humans and ruin their furniture.

A friend who had applied to Battersea to volunteer as a Dog Walker warned me that they were very particular with their volunteer recruitment. She, an ardent dog lover had been rejected with no good reason it seemed.

Oh that won’t happen to me, I thought. I’m practically Egyptian in regards to cats. The Felidae family and I are one.

I filled in the lengthy application form. I pledged away all my free time. I supplied them with referees.

And they rejected me. The bastards.

I have a cat-shaped hole in my life.

And it's getting bigger...

Why Run When You Can Walk?

Four years ago I wheezed my way through my first 5K fun run. It was the annual Crisis Square Mile Run; a charity that I volunteer with every Christmas.

After completing the race and getting my free banana and t-shirt, I felt a sense of achievement. I'd run 5k! Roll out the red carpet! Sound the horns! Where was the Queen to congratulate me?

What was a one-off foray into running soon grew legs and took hold. 5ks became 10ks which became half marathons. I graduated from level running to hills. I came to love earth and trails rather than plodding interminably on concrete. Yet if someone asked me if I am a Runner, I would say No. If this person then asked, Well why do you do all this running then? I would reply, Because it makes me feel free.

Bearing this in mind, I must've been feeling very free and easy the day that I committed to a marathon because quite why I did it is at times, beyond me. It definitely was not a long held dream of mine unlike my wish for naturally curly hair or to have seen Nureyev perform. No, my marathon journey was born from curiosity. Just to see if I could.


Come this Sunday when I gather with 15,000 other curious people at the start line of the Edinburgh Marathon, I hope I'll be able to find out.

Just Breathe

What do you do when you’re alive during a moment of history that pains you?

Britain has a Tory government. There are worse things I know, like 80’s hair and burnt coffee, but my disappointment is acute. My husband is tiring of my rants, claiming that I need to learn detachment. He is right.

Perhaps I’ll detach myself from him.

When I fly to Cuba.

To communism.

He has a point. Life can be easier sometimes if you are more measured and pragmatic. Less idealistic and crazed. Not so black and white. More grey. Or beige.

By coincidence, I visited the Zen Habits website today where this article, Letting Go of Attachment seemed to have READ THIS LAVENDAR sprayed all over it in neon pink.

This is just what I need to help me come to terms with Fascism I thought. I read through the list, processing my overly attached election feelings as I went:

Letting Go of Attachment to Feelings

Understand that pain is unavoidable.
Not true. Alcohol does wonders.

Write it down.
I did. I wrote to all my friends who voted Tory and now they are not speaking to me

Vocalize your feelings.
To who? I’ve got no friends left

Yield to peace.
How about yielding to something a little stronger. Morphine anyone?

Xie Xie. It means thank you in Chinese. Fully embrace your happy moments.
Oh please.

Zen your now.
What does this mean? Who wrote this crap?

After reading I was still angry. And the government was still Tory.

Oh boy.

UK Elections 2010

Ok I take it all back.

The British elections are not boring. Far from it.

It’s now the fifth day since the elections and still we wait to find out who is going to govern us. Brown’s resigned. Cameron’s stopped chopping logs. Clegg is swinging like a pendulum; trying to amass maximum power in his moment of glory.

A hung parliament is a vote of no confidence in all parties. This hedging that has gone on for five days has surely killed off any shred of faith remaining in the voters. The media, parrot-like, are issuing round after round of inane sound bites to fill in the airspace.

Less than 24 hours ago, Brown stepped down and a two-faced turnaround was immediate. Accolades began piling in thick and fast. All the papers started pulling the daggers out; the very ones they plunged in him in weeks gone by. History, I believe, will judge him far less harshly. I don’t think he deserves all the shit that's been piled on him. It was his misfortune to come to power in an age where the population value celebrity shine and glib oratory, whereas I do think he is a man made of much sterner stuff.

So is it to be a Tory leader at the helm? A man who after his 36 hour, I’m-not-going to sleep-because-I’m-tough display of Putin-esque machismo thought it a good idea for his press office to issue the statement that instead of sleeping (because why would you want a well rested person to guide the future of the country), he went home and chopped logs for two hours.

Of course.

The election has become car crash television. And I hope it’s over soon so I can tear my bloodshot eyeballs off the screen.

Good Luck Gordon

He's been flogged to death by the media for the past year. He inherited the reins from the guy who took Britain to war. He had the unpopular job of steering the economy from the cliff edge. He had a very (public) bad day at the office and he was crucified. I cannot even begin to perceive the amount of pressure he has sustained and yet he's still standing, determined to fight to the end.

For all their on camera sparkle, I do not think that Cameron or Clegg have the sheer guts that Brown does.


It's hard to find nice Brown stories in the press. The closer the election gets, the harder it is. It's refreshing when something nice leaks through:

Author Nicola Barker in the Observer:

Clegg and Cameron remind me of two interchangeable models from the Next catalogue. Bland, bland, bland. Gordon's different. He's dark, flawed and chaotic and the more people rail against him, the more craggy and heroic he appears in my eyes. Gordon's a true Brit. If he didn't exist, I'd be duty-bound to make him up.

I don't think Brown or Labour are political nirvana. But I think Cameron's Big Society waffle is using community responsibility as camouflage for public spending cuts. In a different economic climate, I might've taken a punt on the Lib Dems even if their policies are a bit thin. But not right now.

The need for a change seems to be the key leverage being used against Labour by the other parties. But a lot has changed in the 13 years that Labour has been in. I don't know about the rest of the UK, but London is certainly a much better place to live than it was in 1996.

Good luck GB. Hang in there.