Unfinished Business

Thanks to the sports drink, I certainly get a good night's sleep and I'm up nice, early and feeling refreshed. In fact we're outside the paper shop by 7am. Before we can head over to Caythorpe, we have to do the kid's paper rounds, as they're not here. I do Son's round and have a good chat with a couple of his customers, which isn't helpful as I'm in a rush and I also don't get any tips/chocolate bars, which isn't helpful either. All the same it's all done in half-an-hour. Then we drive over to Caythorpe.

Some of the opposition look serious but there's also a nice mix of straight handlebars and mountain bikes which is reassuring for a good placing, as long as none of them beat me of course, which would naturally be catastrophic. In fact I can safely say it appears to be a really friendly event.

Doggo gets a bit upset when I warm up without him and I notice L tries to keep as big a distance as possible between him and the competitors when they walk us all up to the start which is by the village church.

The starter's gun is fired and three psychos in full Tri gear go off like a rocket, closely followed by a lad inappropriately dressed in football kit and me. The psychos are too fast for my old legs and I drop back, although the lad in footie kit somehow manages to stay with them for quite a while before they eventually crack him too. He looks the sort who'll have a mountain bike, so hopefully I'll get my own back on him on the bike section because I'm making no headway on the run. A long-legged chap, reminiscent of last week, bounds past me on a downhill section but I still finish the run well placed in 6th.

I have a good transition, for me, and the bike feels really good. I lose another place to a chap on a 'really serious' bike who's got his nose on his front tyre in what I assume is a really serious aerodynamic pose. On the plus side I start to reel in the long-legged chap, although oddly there's no sign of Mr Footie kit.

Then after 6km of the 16km bike, I hear that all too familiar and dreaded 'hissing' sound of a tyre deflating. Now I am stranded on a narrow country lane with nowhere to pull in because either side of the road are grass verges with two-foot high grass and nettles. After I briefly consider hurling my bike over the nearest hedge, I calm down and realise that the only option is to change my inner tube, which in the long grass and nettles is not going to be a picnic.

Cyclists are by now whizzing past, every so often the odd one will shout 'Everything alright mate...' as they hurtle past at 30mph, they're already out of sight before I reply 'Well actually no...'.

A bit further down the field people do actually start to slow down as they enquire as to whether I have a problem before quickly pedalling off again. No, no problem, I've just stopped for a sandwich and a quick coffee... of course I've got a problem! A couple of members of the fairer sex, aka the less competitive sex, do actually stop to see if I'm ok. I consider playing the wounded male card at this point but my competitive instinct overrules all my other instincts and I politely thank them for their concern before getting on with fixing my tyre.

Now we're so far down the field even blokes are stopping but what is worse is that mountain bikes are going past. I have the tube changed but for some reason it's not inflating. Then just as I'm about to give up and accept assistance off the next passing female it inflates. I quickly remount and give chase to the millions of competitors who have passed me. I've wrapped the old tube around my waist as I'm not sure what else to do with it and being a good citizen, I don't want to leave it rubbishing the hedgerow. It also looks impressive.

In all it has taken around eight minutes to replace the tube which doesn't sound much but boy has it done some damage to my placing in the event. It does give me a feeling of power though as I overtake loads of people who are just tootling along. As I overhaul all the blokes who stopped to see if I was ok, I try and be polite in return as I pass them.

I overtake at least a dozen people then, up ahead, I see a chap on a mountain bike, in ridiculous shorts and with his helmet perched precariously on top of his woolly hat, struggling up a hill. Just the extra inspiration I needed. Thankfully, I catch and pass him. The prospect of not doing so is too grim to contemplate. I hope that I have now accounted for all the mountain bikes.

Back into the outskirts of Caythorpe and I catch one of the girls who stopped for me, if she hadn't stopped she'd probably be out on her second run by now, so I feel a little guilty blasting past her but it had to be done.

Into transition. I try and give L a reassuring 'look no blood' smile, just in case she thinks I've wiped out and have been busy picking the tarmac out of my flesh. I throw down my punctured tube with as much drama as I can muster, change shoes, and then go off on the run, where I pass another eight or nine people including the other girl who stopped to help me, sorry love. As I approach the finish line there's a chap who's ahead of me but easily within my reach. I don't like overtaking people on the line, after an hour's duelling, I feel it's terribly bad form but this is a special chase, so tough.

I end up about half way down the field, which isn't bad I suppose, in the circumstances. Frustratingly the long-legged chap has also had a puncture but he got almost all the way around the bike section before he had his. So if I hadn't punctured I would have beaten him and I could have chuckled 'Everything alright mate...' as I whizzed by.

I have yet to find out what happened to footie boy and whether he did in fact have a mountain bike. No doubt the results will appear eventually but the organiser is the sort of chap who isn't one to be hurried, so they could take a while. One thing's for sure, I'll be back next year, talk about unfinished business.

Doggo's not had a terribly good morning and got savaged by little dogs, twice. We console each other with jaffa cakes and a game of football.

We head to Bingham for Sunday lunch and thankfully something goes right. They have the terrific Gales HSB 4.8% on the bar. Regrettably now brewed by Fullers but still very good.

It's a big day in Derby's division (as in for next season). Stoke get promoted, which is good because hopefully they'll have a damn good job at taking our new record off us. Even better is that Leicester get relegated. Which just about makes up for Forest getting promoted yesterday.

The kids are still not back, so we make the most of an empty house and then when they do return we go off down the pub. We love them really. We make an interesting discovery and find that the Johnson Arms sells Leffe. So that's another pub I need to try and keep L out of.

Units this week - off the scale but appropriate in the circumstances.

Game On

Shrewsbury Dog Show today. Our first event isn't until 11am so I don't rush.

Our first run is a grade 5-7 agility course, which because it includes grade 7 (the top level) should be a real toughie. It should be a genuine challenge which is why lots of people, like me, have come here as opposed to going to one of the other events that are on today where they're running 'easier' grade 3-5 courses. The judge though, hasn't read the script and sets something that a grade 3 wouldn't have any problems with. Frustrating.

None of this matters of course, if you've got a dog that's off weaving at the moment. Doggo enters the weaves ok, hurrah for that, but he comes out after 10 of the 12 poles. Which is another old quirk of his resurfacing. After that he's rubbish on his contacts and I abort the run before the finish. It's not often I do that.

Our second run is better, in fact, it's a whole different ball game. It's 5-7 jumping but a proper challenging course this time, a different judge setting a course worthy of the grading. Only 6 weaves but done to perfection, nice tight turns and a clear round. An excellent run and my Dad has even caught the whole thing on video, rather than just part of the run interspersed with aesthetic shots of sky and grass. We get 12th place, which is out of the rosettes but still I'm pleased.

Our final run, 3-5 agility and therefore meant to be easier, goes ok until the last but one obstacle where he misses his dog walk contact but it's still not a bad run.

I can proudly say that Derby County have set a new record. After losing 3-1 at Blackburn, we are now proud holders of the record for the least points obtained in a Premier League season. So far we have 11 with one game to go. Sunderland who held the record, amassed a mere 15 a few years ago. Amateurs. What's more if we fail to score in our last game, we also take the least goals scored record off them as well. We play Reading, whom I think haven't scored for something like six games but need to win to stay up. Put your money on 0-0 and bye-bye Reading.

I get home to find that the kids have actually gone to their Father's overnight, which is a rarity. We celebrate by staying in, as we have the house to ourselves. Well that's actually only part of the reason. L has fetched my trusty steed from the bike shop, so it's game on for tomorrow. So it's a plate of pasta, one solitary tinny, lashings of one of L's brill puddings and an early night.

L's also bought me a special sports drink to aid sleep and recovery. It's not bad actually and just in case it works I make sure I get a move on talking advantage of the early night.

Gone Mango

L's on a day off today and is hence looking pretty laid back this morning and possibly keen to put me through my paces but I have to resist, I have a bus to catch.

I've taken the plunge and gone Mango, which is the pay-as-you-go travel card from Trent Barton, so it means I can just hop on and off the R4 on my runs to work. Which is what I do this morning. It's a nice morning for a run and again I greet as many people as possible. Some psychologist on the internet reckons that if everyone smiled at three strangers a day, it would cut the suicide rate by three-quarters. I'm not sure about that, I fear I might be having the opposite effect.

I complete the run in roughly the same time as usual but as I keep starting my watch in different places it's hard to tell, I must decide on a definitive start point.

L's decided that the cure for the pain of yoga is more yoga and she's booked in for a session today plus a gym session and a bike ride. Turns out that she does a two and a half hour bike ride, to Long Eaton and then across the Erewash Tri route, which she describes as 'vile' but it can’t have been that vile if she did it for two and a half hours. Two and a half hours! That's sore rear end territory. She says she ought to have a bath because she smells but says she might save it for when I get home. Does that mean she's saving the smell or the bath for me?

I don't win the baby stakes. Even my low guess was far too bouncing.

I jog/walk/Red Arrow home, arriving just as, if not more sweaty than L. Probably for the best because neither of us can complain then.

There's an email waiting for me from the organiser of the Caythorpe Duathlon. Yes, he says, there are places available and he's even taken the liberty of allocating me a number. Hmmm. All I need now is a bike.

After comparing aches/sweat we head down the local for a refreshing beer. Finally the new landlord has arrived. The good news is that the Supreme is back on. The bad news is that the 'little' dog we were told he had is not so little. Doggo takes an immediate dislike to it, they have to be separated and put in different rooms. How embarrassing but I can understand Doggo being miffed that there was another dog in 'his' pub. The landlord makes it up to him by giving him a few sausage rolls. I can't imagine I'd have got the same 'reward' had I picked a fight with him or his wife. It's a dog's life.

Still Undecided

We do the pond run this morning, just Doggo and I. L's overdone it with the dangerous sports, too much yoga. We break our own record for the slowest traverse of the grass verges. I have to wait so long for the blessed creature that I have time to make three new friends, all of who seem to wonder why I'm stood there with a dog lead in my hand but no dog.

I'm on the pub run today, so I'm in the car for the second time this week, which isn't good.

L seems terribly keen for me to do this Duathlon, pushy even but I’m still undecided...

Looking at last years results, I could get well inside the top 10. That is on a good day and with my own bike but that's in for repair at the moment, so I would have to do it on L's bike and in trainers. Although that could be the way to go for Duathlons as it saves time in transition but as L points out people would think I was a novice.
There's also no t-shirt but it is only £15, practically free. Hmmm. Decisions, decisions.

However I’m also getting fed up of AF Saturdays. If I had my bike I’d definitely do it but I'm just not comfortable doing it on another bike. In fact it might be better to save it for a proper attempt next year when I've got my bike back or even got a new bike. That's it decision made, no duathlon, we're off for a wild Saturday night out instead.

Lunch, cottage pie as usual and a very nice beer from Burton's Black Hole, 4.2%

Someone has opened a book on the weight of our director's new baby; winner takes all. As I have absolutely no idea how much these things weigh I'm at a distinct disadvantage. I'm not even good with weights of apples and stuff in Sainsbury's. Ah, I know, I'll check Google. Apparently 7.5-8.5 pounds is about average. So I punt for the lower end of average. I can't imagine him having a 'bouncing' baby.

After work I drive to the pool, L is there in the gym, avoiding the pool which means it's probably full of psychos. It's not a session where the whole pool is laned like it is on a Wednesday, so all the proper swimmers have to cram into the two lanes which they do put out. Somehow and it wasn't deliberate, I end up in a lane with three women. One of them insists on swimming backstroke down the middle of the lane, not looking where she's going. I collide with her twice and she also refuses to stop to let me past when I catch her up. The other two are more accommodating but I am fascinated by the girl in the bikini. No not for that reason, well not just for that reason. She's actually swimming quickly, which is odd for someone in a non-sporty outfit but she appears to have a length of rope attached to her bikini bottoms, which is very odd. Every time I swim past her, I have a good look to try and figure out what it is, without success. I hope she didn't think I was eyeing up her bottom.

I give L a lift home and she joins Doggo and I on the park. L, bad girl that she is, suggests we come home via the pub. Naturally I daren't argue with her and we have a couple of beers from the Vale Brewery which are very nice.

Back home, I cook a curry, while we get a little more sloshed.

Oh, I forgot to mention. Just before I left work, I got a phone call... from the bike shop... my bike’s ready. Bugger. I’m still undecided...

The Old Dinosaur

They say to be an 'urban' cyclist you need a fancy bike and a death wish. Well today I have considerably less of the former and much more of the latter because I cycle to work today on the old dinosaur, the bike that was previously tethered in part-retirement in our spare room as our turbo trainer. I have to say that riding to work on it was not the most brilliant of experiences. Firstly, I had to return home for a quick mechanical adjustment because the seat was too low so. It still wasn't right though but I didn't really have time to play with it. Not only was the seat still too low, it was also loose and pivoted backwards and forwards at will. As for the gears, they were no better than mine, and mine are full of road salt. I arrive at work with very sore knees which serves me right for not taking the time to set it up properly.

L chirpily emails to find out how it went and to ask whether I've made a decision on Caythorpe yet. Oh I don’t know. I’m in such turmoil. I don’t think I can do it on Dino, the debate now is whether I can do it on L's bike or not. As L points out I wouldn't look particularly intimidating with straight handlebars and trainers. She says the word 'novice' springs to mind. Ahhhhhhhh, she shouldn't say things like that.

A couple of chaps from work went out running after work last night, perhaps I've inspired them. They reckon they were doing 8-minute miles. Now they’ve gone and asked me if I could pace them round at a faster pace. Fame at last. Of course pacers never hit the pace that they’re supposed to... They could regret asking...

One of them wants to do a bit of running before he ‘retires’ from it at 40. He says you're not expected to be fit when you get to 40, you’re just not allowed to be fat. Sounds like he's having a crisis before his mid-life crisis.

I ride Dino home but I skip the swim, I'm not sure my knees could take battling with the psychos as well and by now my arms are starting to ache too. I will go tomorrow; I don't have squash tomorrow.

The fact that I get to eat two meals tonight cheers me up a touch. Daughter is off out and is dining in 'style' at the bowling alley, so I have hers but then L cooks daal for us both later. I need to keep my strength up. In between meals, I have to hobble through dog class. Where, as you can imagine, Doggo's weaves are perfect, but of course they won't be come Saturday.

They Don't 'Do' Numbers Anymore

In the car today, partly because I wasn't yesterday and I need to go to Sainsbury's but also because we have 'another' manic evening planned.

L runs from work to Pilates while I head home. I cook pasta and do the dog before being summoned to collect L. Naturally Doggo comes along for the ride.

L's been telling me she's been looking forward to tonight but she had me worried last week when she mentioned the upcoming Sunshine Underground gig. So she could be in for a disappointment because that's not who we're seeing. Tonight its Leeds oddities ¡Forward, Russia! with their artful industrial rock and interesting line in typography. I really need to get a few more long words in, I think I've been slipping of late and I don't want complaints.

We miss the interestingly named 'Cats and cats and cats' but catch the end of 'Johnny Foreigner' who are an intriguing three-piece, two lads, one girl from Birmingham. They produce one hell of a noise with their fast and loud, scuzzy guitars. They consist of a slightly mental guitarist (male), lots of whaling and screaming, together with his slightly calmer sidekick on bass (female). Between them they enjoy quite a bit of boy-girl vocal interplay, well mainly shouting. It's actually quite a potent mix, a bit like the Subways on valium. Oodles of energy and an interesting aggressive sound, rough at the edges but also rather charming, worth another listen.



Last time we saw ¡Forward, Russia! we were in the sweatbox of the Health & Safety nightmare that is Junktion 7, tonight we have space and room to breathe in a half-full Rescue Rooms. Daughter is with us again but it's her first time at the Rescue Rooms. She gets asked for id at the door to see if she's allowed to order food. I think the girl on the door had had too many shandies, I think she meant drink!

Tickets obviously haven't apparently been selling like hot cakes, it’s clearly going to be an intimate gig, and we don't have any problems getting down the front. Where the road crew are double and triple taping the cable to the main microphone which means that the band must be due and said microphone is in for a bit of ill treatment.

Guitarist and main spokesperson Whiskas introduces the first track, 'Spring is a condition'. Yep you heard right, the band that only did songs by numbers now have tracks with proper titles, you know with words in them. They don’t ‘do’ numbers anymore. This seems to be to allow them to let they're imagination run wild, hence we get titles like 'Don't reinvent what you don't understand', which is second up tonight.

Yes, from a commercial point of view, I can see the point of titles but personally I would have retained the numbers alongside. The band will never sound 'commercial', I mean you're unlikely to ever see a ¡Forward, Russia! CD on the shelves of your local Tesco. If you ask Mr or Mrs Average about the band, you'll probably get a very blank look. This is probably why the turn out tonight is slightly disappointing. The numbers were a good gimmick and bands need gimmicks.

The average person, perhaps, just isn’t ready for Tom Woodhead but all the same, welcome back Tom, we've missed you screaming in our faces. From the moment the first chord is launched, he is off on one, into his usual manic convulsions, as if his feet have been plugged into the mains supply.



The punk-funk of 'Twelve' gets the crowd moving and Tom too of course, spiralling himself up in his microphone cord as he launches into something I assume he thinks is a dance routine.

Next we get a brooding rendition of last years 'Don't be a Doctor' and recent single 'Breaking Standing' which highlights their newer more gentle sound. A record that was of course criminally overlooked.

'A Prospector can Dream' is more like their old tried and tested formula, with its pounding, dense rhythm. Whereas a lot of the new 'Life Processes' album sees them adopting a generally more thoughtful sound.

We get a couple of 'numbers' from 2006's 'Give Me A Wall'. One of my favourite albums of that year. I get a poke in the back as L's favourite 'Nineteen' makes an appearance followed by another old favourite in 'Thirteen' accompanied by the appropriate vocal histrionics from Tom.



Tom is now giving the microphone, the expected ill treatment and swinging it around his head. Thankfully it looks like they've done a good job with that extra tape and there's more room on the stage for them here, at Junktion 7 it appeared as if they were practically stacked on top of each other.

Bassist Rob Canning is his usual anonymous self while Whiskas chitchats with the crowd. He tries to get some football banter going as it appears he's a Forest fan despite the fact that the band hail from Leeds. It falls flat because I think most of the audience are transient students and not locals. He makes his apologies to a chap who he was watching the football with next door because he told him that they expected to be on stage at 9.30, when in fact they took the stage a 9.00. 'Yeah, you bastard' comes the reply. Apology accepted then.

Last time, the perspiration was simply pouring off Katie behind her drum kit, regrettably tonight it isn't. In fact she plays the efficient ice maiden throughout and barely breaks sweat.

Newbie 'Gravity and Heat' with it's quieter, prettier parts leads us into their debut record 'Nine', which still sounds fresh and different. Tom promptly goes off on another yelping hissy fit, gyrating away to the juddering beat.

Whiskas tells us we're a 'nice audience', as long as we haven't got our Daughters locked up in our basements. Topical eh? I'm not sure there are many here who have Daughters and ours is stood beside us.

Towards the end we get the predictable bingo calling routine as people shout for their favourite tracks by number. I'm not even convinced that some of the numbers being called actually exist as tracks.



They finish with two new tracks. One of those new wordy titles 'A shadow is a shadow is a shadow'. The new stuff doesn't quite grab you by the throat and spit at you like the old stuff does but it's still not bad. It's more melodic and with tracks like the nine-minute long 'Spanish Triangles' which they close with tonight, they try and be 'epic' but I'm not sure it totally works. A song they describe as 'needing to get out of our system'. They are joined by Bentley the technician on guitar, although his talent in this department seems limited. I think he's there to add a bit of glamour, I think L fancies him.

They return very swiftly for an encore, as if they were worried the crowd might change their mind. They play a storming 'Fifteen', part two naturally.

¡Forward, Russia! may not ‘do’ numbers anymore but they still do throbbingly good gigs.

Back home, slightly deaf and with 'Fifteen' still throbbing through my head we retire to bed, where it appears that L's knee is much better.

Deluding Myself

Oddly for a Monday I'm on the bus. L needs the car tonight and I need to stay in Derby for the Rams' 25th defeat of the season. I only have a £20 note so I seriously doubt that they'll let me on the bus. Thankfully they do, although I now have a pocket full of loose change.

I struggle to work, carrying a wad of entries forms as thick as a copy of War & Peace, which my agent picked up from the running shop on Saturday. Then she emails me with a tempting offer and Ooooo do I fancy some of that. The Caythorpe Duathlon next Sunday. Although I don't have my bike. L says we have a huge array of bikes. Err yes... the kid's two heavy mountain bikes, L's old shopper bike, my old bike from when I was twelve... hmmm... don’t fancy any of them. It’s either use L's or the veteran beast that is our turbo bike. I plan to audition the turbo bike on Wednesday, so a decision will have to wait until then. Of course, it'll mean another low alcohol Saturday but Duathlons are a bit of a rarity.

I finally get the result for Doggo's one decent run at the show last week. We came 5th in the Agility, out of 143, so not a bad showing. L points out that he did better than I did yesterday. She means 'we' did better. We're a reluctant team.

I run to my parents and get the honour of someone blowing their car horn at me as they go past. I would like to think that the two occupants were female but I'm probably deluding myself.

We head off to the match, which as predicted ends in defeat but it's actually quite an enjoyable one, as massacres go. Derby pull it back to 3-2 with only 12 minutes left but Arsenal, I think, were clearly just toying with us and it finishes 6-2. At least we got slaughtered by a decent side this time.

Here's an interesting dilemma, whose name do I put on my 'Player of the Season' voting form. I have a horrible suspicion that Darren Moore is going to win but if they take into account the goal he gave away today he won't. Shocking. All the same, I reckon he'll get the sympathy vote. He's an excellent professional and it's not really his fault he's past it and was nothing special in the first place. Be a nice farewell present for him. I hope!

Because I'm out, L has arranged a dog friendly run over in Derby which is why she needs the car. So after the match I walk to Chaddesden to try and catch the R5 but miss it. The crowds leaving the football are just too dense to get through. So I walk back into Derby for the Red Arrow, quicker in the long run than waiting for the next slow bus.

Not Sucked In

Today's 'training' run isn't until 11am so thankfully, as it's my birthday and I've moved a year closer to drawing my pension, there's time for a proper lie-in.

We've just got up when my father rings; he's at the race start. Where are we? He's a touch early, which for someone who normally finds being on time quite a challenge is somewhat amazing.

We're at Underwood, which is just the other side of Eastwood. Which is so local it would have been rude not to have entered. In fact it's almost close enough to have ran there. L recommends the run because she says it's very pretty route, which is code for bloody hilly. I know, I've checked. I plotted the profile against my bike route through Ilkeston and they’re very similar e.g. it's so un-flat that I'd hate to bike around it.

Oddly after the unsettling experience of deciding to part with £81 on new 'fast' trainers, I decide not to wear them. It is the convention, as with horses and other wayward beings, to break them in first. Of course you could say that as this is just a 'training' run, it could be good breaking in territory but... well I don't.

Before the start, we have a problem with Doggo, it's a touch warm today, so leaving him in the car in the middle of the housing estate where we've parked does not appeal. So we strap him to a lamppost by my father. Naturally he goes mental as we walk up to the start but he's just overreacting.

The pace from the start is quite quick, possibly because it's downhill but as this is just a 'training' run, everyone else can run as fast as they like. I'm not bothered. I'm not being sucked in.

We have to run back past where Doggo is tethered, which is a tad inconvenient. I try and run on the far side of the road, hoping he won't see me. I'm trying not to look at him but out of the corner of my eye, I'm sure I can see him looking at me, out of the corner of this eye, pretending not to notice, pretending not to be bothered, either than or he's got his eye on what that child next to him is eating.

The watch says 7.13 for 2k, blimey that's a bit rapid but I'm not being sucked in. It's just because it's downhill and what goes down must come back up. Yep here we go, a big long hill.

I'm good at hills though and I metronome my way past about six runners. Ha, that was easy. Still not sucked in though.

Downhills are not so much my thing, I'm fine with them, but my knees and ankles are less keen. This is another reason why I stuck with my excruciatingly 'slow' but very well cushioned trainers. Unfortunately some of the other runners do seem to like the downhills, particularly a long legged bloke who bounds down them seemingly in two or three strides. Hmmm, if this wasn't a 'training' run...

33.16 after 8km, which is err... quicker than last week. Freaky. This is supposed to be a slow course and of course I'm wearing 'slow' trainers.

I yo-yo with the Mr Longlegs for a bit, uphill me in front, downhill him in front. His long stride means he keeps avoiding my attempts to trip him up. Still not sucked in but clearly he needs to be dealt with, so on a long hill near the end, I burn him off. All good training.

I casually jog home well inside the top 20 out of 115 entrants in a time of just over 42 minutes which is a surprisingly good time for a hilly training run in 'slow' trainers; perhaps I should have allowed myself to be sucked in, just a little bit, after all.

A chap who lives locally to us crosses the line and between gasps for air, asks me how I've done. Hmmm, I'm not sure what the etiquette is in these cases. Well obviously I've beaten him but should I let him know I've trounced him or is that bad form and should I ask him what his time was. This is all unknown ground for me. So I give it to him straight. He turns his back on me and starts talking to someone else. Guess I'm off his Christmas card list then.

I rescue the dog from his lamppost and we cheer L in, who does another good time and she'll be pleased to know, what she says is the most important thing, is that they're loads behind her.

Back home, a friend of mine pushes a card through the door and then legs it without knocking. I rush outside to see him, to thank him, but his car doesn't stop as I run down the street after him. He'd make a good bus driver.

In house present delivery suffers a dose of the Terminal 5's, Son's arrives at 4.30pm, Daughter's at 6pm, possibly temporarily lost in the black hole. L's was bang on midnight last night; I like a punctual girl.

In the evening, possibly against her better judgement, L's promised to indulge me, as it's my birthday. So it's beer, curry and an evening in a short skirt. Her, that is, not me. We wanted to try a new Indian Restaurant in Nottingham tonight but apparently they close at 8.00 on a Sunday. How inconsiderate. Don't they realise that it’s my birthday and I’ve been put through the hell of Underwood. Oh well, instead we trek over to Derby to the normally reliable Flowerpot for beer. It’s not quite up to scratch tonight, although this is partly because they sneak a couple of 5%-ers on the bar without telling me.

We return to Nottingham, to our local Indian for the curry part, where it's student night. £8.50 all in but for some reason they don't offer it to us.

30 Units, it was birthday week.

The Cost Of 'Fast' Trainers

A frustrating morning. I head down into town at 8.30 to get my bike checked out. The diagnosis is that the gears are clogged up with road salt, only problem is their workshop is booked up solid for three weeks. All the same they take my bike off me, hoping to fit it in sometime. So I don't know when I'll see my trusty steed again.

Bike-less, so I jog home because a man is coming to quote for a new fence at 10am. He's late, which costs me the chance of returning to bed for a delayed lie-in. Instead Doggo and I cut the lawn, then my coach talks me into going over to a running shop in Derby to get some proper trainers. I part with £81 for 'fast' trainers, so they better be pretty damn fast.

We detour to my parents place, so that I can drop some clothes off there. My latest mad plan is to run there for the match on Monday.

L starts cooking up some carbs for our pre-race meal but my brother drops in, shouldn't complain really, to drop off a birthday card. Surprisingly Doggo doesn't try and savage him, they don't usually get on.

Later we walk down to Broadway. I have an EPA, I'm not being AF pre-race this time; you can have too much of a bad thing and it's only a 'training' run tomorrow.

Tonight's film is Happy-Go-Lucky (with hyphens), the latest film from Mike Leigh.

Poppy Cross (Sally Hawkins) is thirty and a Primary School teacher working in London. Her approach to life is to not take anything too seriously or preferably not seriously at all. Of course there's nothing wrong in being upbeat but she is annoyingly cheerful, far too 'up' for her own good and it actually makes her into an immensely irritating individual, along with her equally exasperating friends and her sisters. However once you get past your initial annoyance at her, the film grabs you as it contrasts Poppy with the other characters in the film and their different approaches to life.

Her younger sister is very downbeat with exams looming and pulls no punches with her comments. Her other sister has settled down, got married, is pregnant, has a house and a pension but is bitterly jealous of Poppy's freedom. Her fellow teachers have equally dull lives. Her headmaster's weekly highlight is a Flamenco class hosted by a teacher with men issues. Another teacher, Tash is swamped by the demands of her large family.

Despite being supposedly happy with her lot, Poppy has no boyfriend, which is presumably because she's simply unliveable with. Less clear is why her saner flatmate Zoë (Alexis Zegerman) is single.



She also doesn't drive; instead she cycles everywhere. The reason for this, I assume, is because she is incapable of taking anything seriously it makes her un-teachable when it comes to driving. This is proven when, after the theft of her bike, she decides to learn.

Her policy in life seems to be to try and make everyone else happy but that is not a challenge she is set to win when faced with Scott, her practically psychopathic driving instructor (Eddie Marsan). Scott is the exact opposite of happy. He's an angry, frustrated, lunatic of a man tortured by his past. He berates her for wearing heels and for not concentrating. She dangerously pushes her luck too far with him. An oddity in the film is that we are told her driving lessons cost £22.50, yet Poppy always pays in notes and never receives any change. I wonder why she's tipping him?



Her urge to do good and make people happy takes her into some dangerous situations such as when she befriends a homeless man but also reaps dividends when she correctly diagnoses a boy at school who has trouble at home and she calls in a social worker. Bizarrely the social worker asks her out. Seemingly not being satisfied dealing with troubled children he also fancies a go at the not-so-grown-up Poppy.

It all makes for very watchable viewing. There's some great scenes, one of Poppy in colourful tights and a g-string getting her back sorted by a physiotherapist, springs to mind.

Regardless of what happens in her life Poppy never stops smiling. Her attitude, irritating though it can be, is probably a lot better than the approach taken by other people in her life and that’s perhaps the point Mike Leigh is trying to make.

An excellent film.

We head home for another excellent dessert from L, this time sticky toffee pudding, which is very authentic and will hopefully help me to a fast 'training' run tomorrow.

A Day For Nutters

Tapering on the bus today.

I read in Cycling Weekly that due to the recent bad weather someone claims to have recorded 105km non-stop on an exercise bike. The chap reports that his knee went at 75km but he carried on. He says it's a good job he stayed in or he'd probably be in some ditch with his legs sticking out a bush. Hmmm. 105km on an exercise bike? Why?

There are some characters on the bus on the way home. First we have to put up with a young art student on her mobile. You could tell she was an art student from how badly she was dressed. I also reckon she used to be quite pretty once, before she decided to put all that metalwork in her face. I was surprised it didn't interfere with her mobile reception.

Thankfully, at least at first, she is drowned out by a real 100% nutter. At first he's entertaining as he starts telling some poor chap about how good the bus service is before seamlessly changing subjects several times to take in the creation of the diesel engine, motorcycle despatch riders, how it was better when cars had their engines in the back, oh and all sorts of inane stuff I've since forgotten. In the end, we were all wishing metalwork girl would talk up a bit louder to drown him out.

No lycra and no aches to be massaged tonight, cheese on toast and a run to Beeston instead. The Grantham Stout and the Adnams Broadside are equally impressive, so to be fair, I have equal amounts of both.

Must be a day for nutters because a bloke in the pub tries to befriend me, and anyone else he can persuade, in his quest to borrow someone's mobile phone. He doesn't seem to have any success and eventually slopes off but not before he's spent a fair amount at the bar, money he could have put into a pay phone... I smell a scam.