The Saga of Cat Brown 8: Vet Noir

Expression 32: Baleful

Expression 32: Baleful

To truly illustrate how much Ambridge loathes going to the vet, I need to go back a few months to when she stopped eating.

To be clear, Ambridge does not wish to stop eating. She is what one pet website politely terms “food-focused”, to the extent that I had to replace her automatic cat feeder with the feline equivalent of Fort Knox, sourced by H when she mastered how to burgle and eat its predecessor’s contents in five minutes flat. Continue reading

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Full-Size Snickers Training! Week 15: The Blerch

blerch_shirt_thumbnail

Completely forgot to post this earlier in the week – my mind has been all over the place with work events and eating like it’s going out of fashion. Post! And one to come before Sunday. Hopefully. Dear lord it’s so close!

 

I arrived at choir last week clutching a large glass of red – sorry Lent, we’re very much over now – and a friend said hello.

“I read your blog,” she said. “It was really funny! And the McDonald’s. But I can’t believe you actually admitted that in public.”

I said something blasé about my terrible diet at the moment, and eating everything, but it stuck with me. My eating has been appalling for the last few weeks. At the same time, I have entirely failed to get the hang of tapering, and my running has crashed to a halt of a Sunday long run, and that’s it. I saw some pictures from the Richmond half and I look even more like the tragic jelly shoved into a sock and violently beaten that I was at Marrowthon.

Reader: this is not good. Continue reading

Full-Size Snickers Training! Week 1 – WTF, I can’t even…

FROSTY SHEEPS!

FROSTY SHEEPS!

Here we are. The big one. The full-sized Snickers. The London Marathon.

Readers who enjoy pictures of me running with a massive smile on my face will get nothing. This is the grim bit of the inspirational film’s training montage. To put it bluntly, I am utterly terrified about doing a marathon. All my worries have compressed into an exquisite diamond of discomfort. I wonder what on earth possessed me to think I might be capable of the training, let alone the race. Marathon runners are gilded lilies with wingèd trainers and halos of determination. Runners World magazine has gone mental with them. And how the fuck am I going to raise over £1650? Continue reading