Juneathon 10/30: A walk in the park

Today’s run was supposed to be straightforward; I would join Ginge in the gym for a bit and then run home. I got to the gym and it dawned on me that I’ve neglected the gym a bit during Juneathon. I enjoy doing my weights at the gym but can’t get past either the tedium of cardio equipment or the rubbishness of the telly that’s on.

Anyway, at the gym I managed to climb 39 steps (the first of Follystone‘s suggestions that crop up today)…

I can also offer blurry photos of 38 and 40 steps if anyone’s interested

…and did a bit on the cross trainer before I got restless. Sometimes I keep myself entertained by swearing at the adverts. No matter what channel is on, they’re always a variation of payday loans, Uniform Dating (do you fancy people who have to wear a designated outfit and a name badge?) and the Veet one with the girl who’s inordinately proud that she no longer gives herself third degree burns whilst waxing her legs. Sadly the EDF energy advert wasn’t on, which deprived me both of something orange and the opportunity to mutter darkly at what is essentially a jovial orange poo with backing dancers.

It’s called Zingy apparently

After a while I think I must have been annoying Ginge because he suggested the grand idea of me running round town looking for treasure (yes mum, there was shades of this being ‘a good job for me’).

Off I trotted, optimistically seeking a half eaten Greggs or someone’s dropped treasure, but unfortunately the locals are too frugal to waste pastry or spare change. I made my way up to the park, getting some slightly odd looks as I darted from tree to tree looking for one from my list. I didn’t quite find Jo’s a tree with someone’s name carved in, but this one did have a declaration of love so I think that counts.

Today I shall be mad woman taking photos of trees

I headed up to the lake to see if I could spy some baby swans, only to get into a conversation with a couple who were looking for exactly the same thing. Apparently, the swans have been on the nest constantly for the last week, but today both were off it and yet there was no sign of any cygnets. The nesting island was covered in ducks and gulls, which is a bit odd if there were eggs or babies on there. I am awaiting updates.

Swan: may or may not have been a neglectful parent

Even though there were no baby swans, there was this chap who, with his waterside hangout, certainly looked like a dignified pigeon (and his feet weren’t deformed or nothing). If you want to see the very definition of a dignified pigeon have a look at Deadly Knitshade, yarn bomber extraordinaire and keeper of both Cooey the Pigeon and Plarchie the Giant Squid. Her book (Stitch London) is bloody awesome.

I am a pigeon. This is my lake.

After all the socialising and pigeon paparazzi, I thought I better head back to Ginge whose eagle eyes had spotted a blue fence (another of Follystone‘s) at the railway station.

I’ve spent ages defining what is a fence and what are railings. This is most definitely a fence.

Gym graced with my presence, three miles run, four treasures spotted, not bad for a Sunday.

Juneathon 9/30 – cutting it fine

Today I played chicken with Juneathon.

My original intention had been to get up early and try to spot a Parkrun t-shirt at Pennington Flash Parkrun. Unfortunately, I overslept. I then realised that I didn’t actually want to do a morning run despite that fact that I was due to have my hair cut at 12. This might be a girl thing, but if I’m having my hair done I don’t like to do anything to mess it up afterwards – I just enjoy¬†basking in the all too brief hours where it has been blow dried by someone who knows what they’re doing. Unfortunately, last time my hair had been cut, I had to have a little cry afterwards and I was absolutely petrified about this appointment (my hair has just about grown out to the length that I wanted two months ago. And my hair grows fast). Anyway, I figured that if it was just as traumatic, I could always go for a run afterwards and see if that helped.

As it was, my hair turned out exactly how I wanted to and I celebrated by buying a new frock and some soup. You’ll notice how none of this counts for Juneathon. I went home, I ate my soup, I mixed up some chocolate and black treacle biscuits from Marian Keyes’ book Saved By Cake, I realised that leaving the page covered in splatters of biscuit mix is bad form when it’s a library book (you can tell all of my favourite recipes by the fact that the pages are like a Jackson Pollock rendered in butter, sugar and flour), I ate the mixture off the spatula more times than I should have done, I did many things. None of which were Juneathon.

One of our local pubs is having it’s annual folk festival this weekend (the weather is always rubbish this weekend, it’s as if god doesn’t like banjos) and I do enjoy embracing my inner folky. Conveniently the pub is bob on a mile away from our house (I know where the half mile markers are located in all directions from our front door) so we pootled up, listened to a nice bit of folky bluegrass and enjoyed a few pints of Hobgoblin (Ginge) and Marston’s Pedigree Diamond (me). Sadly these aren’t local ales for us (they’ll be local to someone though) otherwise I’d be able to tick that one off the list.

Special drinking beer outside gloves – to be blogged about at a later point

There had still been no Juneathon action at this point. I had however made preparations; Miles was in my bag, I was clad in appropriate foundation garments and I was the height of sartorial elegance by wearing running shoes to the pub. Keeping an eye on the clock like Cinderella at the ball, I was playing Juneathon chicken right up to the wire. I wasn’t helped by my last minute nip to the loo being held up by the woman in front of me seemingly having a bladder the size of a zeppelin.

If you look closely, Miles says 23:41

Despite this, I made it – a one mile run (in a surprisingly decent time, all things considered) from the pub (suggested by the Queen of the Athons herself) arriving home with 3 minutes to spare.