Blowing my inner vuvuzela

This blog started in a splurge of loveliness, there were antics with kettlebells and randy professors, there were rundown little cottages and academic honours, there were successes and little lapses, but an underlying optimism that rendered the lapses void. There were flirtatious French students and frolicking princesses. OK, there wern’t any princesses, but there was frolicking.

More recently, I’ve exposed you all to financial woes, to friction burns and to my drowning in a whirlpool of Marlboro Lights and white bread. I’ve whined about my mountain of corrections, I’ve moaned about my dependence on the car and I’ve whinged about hot weather and sweat.

Enough of this. I’m having a weekend as busy as a bumblebee who’s behind on his honeymaking. My parents are around and I’m doomed to at least two of their dinners, the epicness of which I have previously described here. But I don’t care. I’m chockful of corny hopefulness.

I may be full of endorphins from the walk I just took. It was a good five-miler. And there is no doubt but that I was at the perfect fat-burning rate. I panted and sweated, and my legs are now pulsating with that pleasurable tiredness that you only get from a good walk. According to the iMapMyRun app, I averaged a speed of 3.5 mph. I’m doing my first actual run next Tuesday. If I don’t bring my speed up a bit, it’ll take me seven and a half hours to do the marathon. I can’t imagine doing anything for seven and a half hours. I’ll keep you posted on the whole speed thing.

Also in my endorphin-ridden state, I’ve got back on the “Suck it up, bitch” wagon. I’m back on porridge, off white bread and off fags as and from Monday. Weigh-in coming your way tomorrow. It’ll be a bit rubbish, but it won’t be the last one.

Oh, and by the way, the title of this post has nothing to do with the contents, but it just seems that it is impossible to be “relevant” these days without mentioning vuvuzelas, so I am now joining in that media drone.

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