As I approach the end of my first week of trying to lose nearly half my body weight and all that, I have to conclude that progress probably isn't as rapid as first hoped.
I think they made more ground in the battle of the Somme than I have in four days of just trying to not eat so much, it shouldn't be that hard.
But I have got the Bristol 10K to look forward to on Sunday. I signed up for it in a moment of hopeless optimism some time ago, and now I face the prospect of trying to run about seven miles (I still can't work in that new fangled Euro currency) having done virtually no training.
In fact if my training could be measured in minus, like temperature, it would be some way close to Arctic conditions I suspect.
Not sure how I will feel on the day, or for several after it, but I am going to give it a bash, even if it means getting a lift on the truck that goes round picking up the cones when they re-open the roads.
I mean, what's the worst that can happen when a seriously overweight man in his thirties attempts to run seven miles after no training, just a couple of years after a heart operation? Well, the organisers should check I signed the waiver to stop me suing them, and I'll probably just walk most of the way.
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