03.02.13- Half-brothers, Half-marathons and Having No Other Half

Today I managed to hit over 11 miles in training, which is a great milestone in my half-marathon training. Brings a tear to my eye to think that a few years ago, running meant crying in a hedge claiming death was upon me after trying to jog for 10 minutes and rolling over into a bramble patch with severe exhaustion. I was 3 stone heavier then however, so maybe I was just emotionally overcome with desire for a bag of chips.

There is no better feeling than pretending to be a patio after a long run

I think I underestimated the distance from Sainsbury's in Swansea Marina to Verdi's in Mumbles and back. I am not going to say "meh it was nothing, I'm not proud of myself," because bugger it, I am. Yes, my blood sugar levels suffered badly after it and it's taken a lot of injecting this evening to get things settled, but now they have and I feel great. I'm not proud of myself because I think I'm fucking awesome, because I'm not, I'm mostly a bit of a tool. I'm proud that it's making people donate to a very important local charity and brings Singleton Hospital's leukaemia unit one step closer to their target of raising enough to fund a blood machine. I am so grateful to all the kind and wonderful people who have sponsored me, and if you haven't yet but have a spare quid rattling around, please help me raise more money by donating here:

https://www.charitiestrust.org/members_data/event/missholborow10k/index.html

Making a cat-friend, even in Magaluf

Or you can donate at Sainsbury's Gorseinon and come and see me on my shift (Tuesday 6-10pm, Saturday 8-4pm I'm there scanning them beans like a pro). Or just drop me a message and give it to me in person. I won't try and hump you with gratitude but you can have a hug and a kiss on the cheek if you wish (and you thought £1 couldn't buy you much these days).
My run began a little later than planned. Actually a lot later. I got up at 8am to do Uni work, started analysing Dylan Thomas' poetry then fell asleep on my books until 1pm. So it looks like I won't be getting to sleep for a while tonight. Which of course means online cat browsing so I can make a dream board for when I can finally purchase my own real life cats.
I called to see my wonderful little ginger half-brother after my run. I don't like the term "half-brother" and refuse to use it. I am using it here to show how bloody ridiculous it is. Yes, he comes from a different father than I do but I still tell people he's my brother. To say "half" suggests he is less to me. He isn't. I can't even explain how much I love that kid. I love him no less than I do my sister, who has the same father as me (she looks more like him than I do. Minus the bald head and goatee. They have the same "serious" face when they're concentrating, sort of like a meerkat contemplating car insurance quotes and looking far out into the distance).

I'm not afraid to kiss gingers

He was hyper today. As I came in, he bolted down the stairs stark naked to greet me and once again show me his backside. I have no idea why he does this. It's great to see someone so confident about their derriere, but having to reveal it to everyone in the room more than 5 times in the same hour may suggest some serious issues. I need to teach him about what is acceptable behaviour when going on dates before he turns 18 or he's going to have problems and restraining orders.

The most important men in my life

Having a dance with him and chasing around put me in a great mood. It also meant seeing my beautiful dopey labrador Marley, who is inseparable from his 4-year-old ginger homeboy. I love every minute I spend with him. I love the way that every time he tries to pronounce the letter "R" he sounds like a weird motorbike. I love it when he asks for a kiss and a cuddle out of the blue and tells me "I love you Nat" for no apparent reason (ie, the times he does it when I'm not holding a bag of Cadbury's chocolate Buttons in my hand). If you hadn't gathered already, I bloody love my Callum.
Getting home, I've decided on a relaxing evening. I was going to go to the pub for a drink. But I'm happy just to treat myself tonight and do what I fancy. Which means a cold bottle of wine, Napoleon Dynamite and my unsexiest Minnie Mouse pyjamas. I'd been feeling a bit down and lonely for a lot of January, but strangely with the shops shoving Valentine's Day in everyone's faces I'm actually feeling quite happy about being nobody's other half. I'm still young. I still have so much time to find someone and I like the excitement of never knowing who will be willing to buy me a few glasses of wine next (I swear I'm not an alcoholic, it's just that Merlot is a very quick way to my heart in the same way that men like steak and chips). And if I don't find anybody, I've always got the cats to look forward to in the future. I can watch Countryfile and never have to share my drink and smoke cigars and be covered in Persians and Siameses (is that a plural? Is it just "Siamese"? What's that song? "We are Siamese if you pleeeease..." ...oh, it must be just "Siamese" then).
Though I would like a really fit slave to rub Tiger Balm on my sore muscles after running. I'd ask Willy Wonka where he got his little bitches from, but Oompa Loompas really aren't that fit. And it would take a lot of Blossom Hill to turn them into sex gods, even by my drunken non-standards.
Until next time. Remember to sponsor me please! (Far politer than Bob Geldof's "GIVE ME YOUR FUCKING MONEY" on Live Aid).

Even I can't drink until an Oompa Loompa is fit