Nope, it’s gone. I
have nothing to give this weekend. I’m
slumping around the house like a glum thing.
Yesterday was exercisely a write off and today I am pitched out in the
loft. Why? Because Mr Rodgers doesn’t come up here and
so whilst I’m away, it’s a good place to hide the Nutella. The only thing stopping me from jabbing my
finger into the jar (all the hobnobs are gone) is the moisturiser I just
lathered onto my fingers to relieve myself from the untrained 150 miles of
Braunton and all the associated shifting that came with it. It’s taken 3 weeks for the skin to start
peeling off my thumbs.
During those three weeks I have done a lot. The Stockton Duathlon and the Norton Wheelers
cycling weekend away which is always hard for me since I rarely ride my bike
*that* much for triathlon training. I held
my own, though this time and had a good weekend, topped off on Monday with a
walk with my husband and a paddle in the river Tyne.
I’ve also ridden my mountain bike this week. In a week that should have been an
opportunity to recover, I had to drive to Guildford and back (after just
returning from Northumberland) and I did so through to midnight on the way
down. This combination gave me a rather
unsightly unsettled tummy on Thursday night (or possibly, the chef at the
Holiday Inn in Guildford doesn’t know how to incinerate black pudding correctly
– I have my suspicions).
SO my resting heart rate is 20 above what it should be and,
although I can now pass solid objects, I’m still feeling flaky, in some hollow
between depression and exhaustion. I
made myself feel better with a shower and a plan to reclaim my yoga studio in
the loft as it has become choked with bits removed from the kitchen. By the time I’d gotten into the shower, I was
already trembling for more sugar and then the loft was missing hobnobs and so
Nutella from a camping spoon will need to do.
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