I ran a half-marathon

I ran a half-marathon on Sunday.

Aren't I fucking brilliant?

It was dead good. I wasn't nervous. I ran all the way without stopping, and didn't speak to anyone. I still feel good. I got a medal.

I have a form of Munchausen's Syndrome by Proxy (for Marathons), a bit like Beverly Allitt, the early-90's child killing nurse. Her mania made her harm and kill children in order to draw attention and sympathy to herself. A bit fucking mad, no? Well, mines is not that bad. Instead of murdering and maiming people, I talk about marathons and running to draw attention and sympathy to myself.

-Isn't it shocking about this Icelandic volcano? Chortle. We're all becoming something approaching experts on airspaces and flying regulations, aren't we?

-Aye, that's right. Here, I ran a fucking half-marathon yesterday, did it in under 2 hours, not bad, eh?

That sort of thing.

I did the thumbs up to a policeman who applauded me as I lumbered past. Never again will I denigrate the boys in blue. Any poor bastard they shoot deserves it 100% now as far as I'm concerned.

It rained like fuck all morning.

I came quite low in my age category.

I could have ran faster.

None of these things matter.

I ran a half-marathon. The police applauded me. I got a medal. Sarah is proud of her papa.

Best of all, it gives me the opportunity to talk about marathons and running, in order to draw attention and sympathy to myself.