Pubtastic

It's already all gone horribly wrong. On Wednesday, instead of a run I worked a 17 hour day in torrential rain. I met this guy:



Because I was working with this guy:



who I can report was stoic in the face of the news that his job had just been swept from London to the depths of Salford Quay, Manchester. Imagine being told your whole life has to shift from Auckland to Kaitaia. You'd just quit and stay nearer the action.

I slept till midday the next day, only getting up to stagger into town for a spot of networking and a pub crawl with Rosco. Half pints or spirits only, quantity of pubs rather than quality. During our tour of about 8-10 pubs (never trust the count) we renamed the days of the week, and now have an appropriate hand signal sorted for "I can fly a galaxy class starship through the hole in your argument, SIDEWAYS." It was important relationship time well spent. However, instead of sleeping it off the next morning we were woken by the worst sound in the world - the landline at 5am.

I don't want to belittle Julian's obvious agony as his appendix worked its way towards popping but I'm glad that's all it was, and that the call came from Julie needing help getting him to the hospital, rather than the police with news of death. Julian is currently under observation at home, and I'm using him as my excuse for only walking yesterday, and not running. Four hours sleep on mixed spirits does not an athlete make.

However, today I have no excuse, and after missing massive chunks of my training programme already I need to just get out and get going. For tonight the scene is happening again:



So today, I write the blog for my demanding little sister, run 35 mins through stormy weather at a decent speed, dye my hair, get into town to rig the lights for the surf band, and find an outfit as I've sadly left my Hawaiian shirt in a box in NZ, awaiting a decent shipping quote. Dammit.