I had a very wet run this morning.
I have still not got round to organising any actual sports gear for myself. This is because it is ridiculously expensive and I have spent all my money buying books.
Also there are hardly any places at all who stock my size in sports bras. I had a quick look around a while ago, but if you want 36 G fitting then you are limited to a select few stockists who have prices as inflated as their cup sizes.
This is an irritating female difficulty. I did not even know that my bra size was 36 G until I had telephoned Rigby and Peller to find out, because they do not bore their customers with this sort of technical detail when you are actually shopping. They ply you with alcohol and take a print of your credit card and the rest is all about lace and pretty colours, because of, you know, being girls.
They stock very splendid-looking 36 G sports bras, but they are almost a hundred quid, so for the present I am still wearing Lucy’s. These are 32C and do not fit very well at all, but seem to do most of the job and do not look too ridiculous as long as nobody watches me trying to get them on and off. Lucy has given up expectations of getting them back, as she knows that it might be a while before I raise a hundred quid that doesn’t have any other vitally important function.
Anyway, the absence of sports gear means that I am running up and down the fell in jeans. This was all right a few months ago, but either I have got smaller or the elasticated part of them has stretched. This morning, once they were wet, they were so heavy that they were slipping down, and I was obliged to run with my thumb hooked through one of the belt loops. I bet Usain Bolt does not have to do this. It could have led to a very awkward moment.
By the time we puffed up to the back door we were all sodden. The poor bald dogs were very sorry for themselves indeed. I peeled my soaking clothes off without much difficulty, and then with one accord, we all three went back to bed.
This was by way of compensation for working late last night and then getting up early this morning. I become horribly grumpy if I do not get enough sleep. Every now and again I have attacks of conscience about going back to bed when Mark is at work, but he is absolutely adamant that he likes me best when I am not tired and cross, so I have taught myself how to live with my guilt. I am pleased about this.
I got into bed, and suddenly felt horribly cold. I shivered and cocooned myself in the duvet, but could not warm up. Eventually I dozed off, and when I woke up an hour later, my feet and hands were still corpse-cold.
I wondered, self-pityingly, if perhaps I might be ill, and for a few minutes, hopefully imagined myself languishing in bed with what used to be called a chill, and is now called Man Flu, but I didn’t. There are limits to the amount of guilt that even I can live with.
I got up and put a second jersey on, and baked a cake, because of the nice warm oven. This worked very nicely indeed, and by the time I had added a tray of biscuits to my achievements I had warmed through splendidly.
I went to the gym before work as well.
Perhaps I will manage to shrink into Lucy’s sports bra eventually.
Especially if I don’t eat the cake.
