Cha'mone Hee Hee - Malky Jackson

My mojo is still AWOL, but it’s ok. I know where it’s at.
Mrs pacepusher is looking after it for me. Good to know its in safe hands till I’m ready to have it back.

Tonight I’ve decided I’m gonna give myself a good talking to and drag my sorry ass out the door. The weather is bloody awful. It’s raining like the sky has fallen in and doesn’t look like its going to stop anytime soon. I quite like running in the rain but I don’t like starting in it?!?, I know, go figure.
So tonight’s the night.
I really need it. Running helps me clear my head and sort all my worries.
I’ve had a busy 10 days.
Hannah’s party turned out to be a great night. After running around like a looney sorting all the tinsel and baubles, munchies and entertainment and an overpriced DJ. Collecting the Lahndan contingent from the train station and welcoming all the wee girls done up to the nines I actually enjoyed myself. The highlight of the night was my bestest buds wee boy giving his well-practiced rendition of a Malky Jackson routine!! I kid you not, the wee man is only three and not quite up to speed on the pronunciation of iconic recording artistes handles. I need to acquire some video evidence of this quality display of dancing he is superb.

Cue my sister in law and a bottle of tequila and it’s off to mine for a party. Skoosh!! bottle of wine necked and a spot of dancing on the tables. Hey ho, no worries for me I aint running 50 miles in the morning.
Round Strathaven 50 passes with out much drama. Pirate makes a sensible decision and calls it a day after 32 miles. Head down to carryout presidential duties and award the prizes. Even managed to wangle a marriage proposal, I think. Don’t fancy being Mrs Valdimir though ;-)

Monday was smashing. Lunch in the sunshine in the company of four gorgeous blokes, how lucky am I? Slight concerns about one of them though, but I’m sure you know why…..
A couple of hours lying under a tree in Princes Street Gardens was bliss. You know one of those moments where you want to freeze time.



A crazy week at work and fast-forward to a crazier weekend.
I am separated from those I wish to spend time with by 400 miles and I try to ensure that I fill my time to capacity to dull the ache of enforced separation.
Friday was my old bosses leaving do. She and her hubby are off to live in Spain in a few days. A night at the horses was on the cards but the weather put paid to any racing on a waterlogged course. So it was cocktails on the deck instead. A very civilised night as I was back home by 1am.
A slightly less civilised night on Saturday when me and the mother of Malky Jackson got on it til 3.30am. I’m getting old. 2 nights in a row have left me proper gubbed. Can’t handle the pace any more.

Another busy week but a good weekend to look forward to. Quiet, no running around like a mad woman. Just a civilised train journey with my weans and a bottle of vino callapso. I wonder where Martin Hooper the Paratrooper is???

I’ve just noticed that it is a whole year since I started writing this god-forsaken thing.
It all started with a reccy of the start of RAW. How time has flown. I could never have foreseen just how different my life would be 365 days later.

Hopefully my next post will have some running content. Fingers crossed wish me luck.

Hasta,
Mrs Mac xox

Where Has My Mojo Gone?

Right after the Cally Challenge is was bouncing like the revellers of the Hacienda in its heyday. Full of enthusiasm and misplaced ideas of grandeur and ability. Stating publicly that I’d like to do a bit, if not all of RAW. How then have I gone from that eager enthusiast to wine swilling, kettle chip munching couch potato? Whose activity levels have dropped below those achieved when suffering a debilitating back injury?

My mojo has well and truly upped and offed.
I knew it was a bit pie in the sky to have a crack at RAW, but I thought half of it might be do’ able. Ok, so I had a bit on an injury to overcome, but that’s sorted long since.
I talked about a lot setting goals and entering events (note the absence of the word ‘race’) none of which I have done.
Does my lack of interest in any form of competition prevent me from being an achiever? Am I doing myself a dis-service my not being goal driven? Or am I just a lazy b*****d?
My body works, my mind says I want to do it but my lassie faire attitude keeps me in the house making excuses.
I am an eternal pre contemplator. One of those ‘one day’ people.
I talk a good game. Love to encourage others to reach for the stars. Make them believe in themselves. I just can't do it for myself.

I had a long chat with Irene Wilson, founder of Strathaven Striders & WHWR veteran, a few days ago. She talked at length about the affect Dario’s death had on her. Irene is due to complete her 100th marathon next year and was toying with the idea of Marathon de Medoc as a club run so we could all celebrate with her when she achieves this momentous feat. She, like me has lost all interest; I was surprised at first to hear of this, as she is such a driven person. I’m no psychologist; I can’t begin to understand why. But at least I'm not alone. Maybe, no maybe about it, definitely- significant events such as Dario’s death make you look at things in a different light. My/our light is just burning a little bit dimmer just now.

If you find my mojo can you stick it in the post and send it back to me. I’ll be glad to be reunited with it.

Mrs Mac x

A Wee Do In The House

This time next week I’ll be in the throes of a 12 year olds birthday party.
None of your jelly and ice cream and a game of pass the parcel. No, no my daughter has taken the throw away comment of “have what ever you want” and run with it. Quite literally.
So, the wee hall is booked up hence she now has a massive hall to fill with her nearest and dearest, and a few mates from school. The wee madam hasn’t even considered that she is starting high school in a few days and there is a whole…… new group of friends out there.
So, after work today (I’ll get to that in a minute) she whisked me of to the local party prop shop for STUFF.
Who ever knew a 12 year old needed so much junk to make their party perfect. I remember a ‘do’ in the house with a few buddies from my street and my aunties and uncles dropping by with gifts in ribbons and bows. Well, maybe not exactly, but you get the gist. We will have a spectacular festival of tinsel and baubles on show next week and I’ve not even started on the DJ. Lets hope my purse can survive.

So, work on a Saturday. Me, can you believe it? The last time I worked a weekend shift All Saints were top of the charts. Leonardo Di Caprio was still baby faced and I still thought Marti Pellow was ‘aw right’.
My new job requires me to cover the odd weekend health check event. As this was my first one I made sure I was sans hangover. Didn’t think it would be too braw if I turned up stinking of booze and trying to convince the good people of ‘Whitehill’ that 14 units really are sufficient for the week. These events are guaranteed to make you smile. Our stall (providing health checks and lifestyle intervention advice) was set up right next to the one offering chocolate covered kebabs!!

Weekend work prevented me from making my way south to the now comfortingly familiar sights and sounds of Lahndan town. Little did I know this time last year what a difference one wee email would make. Don’t forget.
Take each day as it comes.
Expect the unexpected and if you don’t live life on the edge your taking up too much room.

Laters,

Mrs Mac

Pirate Plans Alternative DoH Weekend

This weekend I was planning a wee spot of camping and some ultra groupie action at the Devil o The Highlands race.
A swift change of plan and I waken up on a deserted beach at the opposite end of the country.
If someone had suggested that it would be fun to make a 1000-mile road trip in 48 hours I would have laughed in their face.
So, the Pirate was handed all responsibility for our alternate DoH weekend and I remained stress free throughout.

16.54hrs and Richard Branson’s railroad carriage departs Motherwell station. I am usually sorted with some drink and nibbles for the journey, however traffic delays threatened to cause me to miss the train and I had to opt for over priced pink wine and a bag of Skips from the onboard shop. At least the wine was cold. Quickly scoffed and I get my head down for a wee kip.
Some nasty bint woke me up by sitting down next to me. Note to self- sit in the aisle seat and occupy both seats for the duration of the journey.

Half way through the journey I get a bit restless and plan another wee visit to the overpriced offy. A quick comfort stop on the way me thinks.
I can hear voices outside and deduce there must be a queue forming. As the door to the lavatory swooshes open I am confronted with a familiar face.
Oh, hiya,
hiya,
WTF HIYA!!!
Martin Hooper the Paratrooper is standing in from of me. I thought for a minute there was a problem with the train engines and he had been drafted in to propel the train forward, coz he could you know. The man moves earth when he runs, well according to Corned Beef he does. He was returning home from a week in the Lakes.

The second half of the journey passes in a flash as I am instructed by the Pirate “ better get on the p**s then”

Next day a long lie and no rush to get anywhere. A leisurely journey south, with only a slight map reading misdemeanour. And we’re on Weymouth beach just after 5pm. Crackin beach, proper seaside town. Really clean and lots of good family attractions. Note the distinct lack of tattooed f***wits as we lie down and people watch for a bit.
Find a beltin Greek restaurant (eventually) and enjoy some fresh seafood for dinner.

A little bit of subversiveness was required next. We hadn’t booked anywhere to camp so we sought out a suitable spot.

The main reason for such a long drive was to see Chesil Beach. OMG this place has to be seen. Spectacular!! We drove to the top of Portland and took some photographs. As the area is a nature reserve there is no camping ANYWHERE d’oh.

I can’t tell you where we ended up pitching our 2.4kg tent but let me just say I have never, ever, ever camped anywhere so stunning as this. It took a bit of serious dedication and some superior night vision (I was not allowed a head torch. I had to pick my way down a cliff path in the pitch dark with only moonlight for guidance)
Tucked away in a wee corner our camp was set. Red wine was drunk at midnight under the stars and with the moonlight reflecting off the sea. Very special.

An early rise and time to break camp. Breakfast of smoked salmon and scrambled egg was had at the bistro at Lulworth Cove. Fab, fab, fab. Pretty good value considering it was such a tourist trap. A wander round the visitor centre for some education and learn about how all the rocks were formed. Probably the most perfect way for me to spend a day. A short nap on the beach and some more people watching and all too soon it was time to leave.
I was sorry we didn’t have more time in the area, as Dorset is absolutely stunning. Our whistle stop tour was over. I would never have thought it would be worthwhile travelling so far for such a short break. Well, I will never say never again. An amazing weekend. We managed to cram such a lot in to so few hours but it didn’t feel rushed.
I will return, soon I hope.

Ps. Nae runnin.

Mrs Mac x

Me, Myself and I

In the space of a day my life went from being filled with 14 people to nil.
For almost two weeks the Waterman/Maclean Brady Bunch were in full swing.
I spent most of my time feeling like I was back working for play services. Counting children at every opportunity, making sure there was an adult at the front, an older child in the middle and me bringing up the rear doing an impersonation of Mary Poppins, a very grumpy stressed out Mary Poppins by all accounts.
Just a day later and there is no child like chatter going on in my ears, no Muuuuuummmmmm or “but he did it first” Nothing, zilch, nada.

My children are off with their Dad to sunny Carluke (?) and the Pirate fireman has evacuated his weans and transported them 400 miles south.
So to anyone else this may seem like heavenly bliss, but to me its utter crapola.
I’m a sociable character, I like company. I might be a miserable mare sometimes, but in general I’m happiest when I know the kiddywinkles are close at hand and the Pirate is faffing with his blog on my laptop.
I’ve been rattling round the house like a petulant teenager.

Staying in the house on my own doesn’t bother me that much. When the weans were wee their Dad often worked away, so I got used to being on my own. The other night though I scared my self half witless, I nearly had to sleep with the light on.

As bedtime approached I thought I’d lock up the house and watch the news in bed. I switched off all the sockets down stairs (I’m a bit obsessive about that) locked the front door and put the chain on and made my way up the stairs. One thing I forgot to do was put the hall light on. As I approached the top stair I heard this almighty GROWL coming from one of the kids rooms. Oh shit!! I stood there like a startled rabbit. Trying to quickly decide the best course of action. How the f**k had a dog, a f&*kin’ massive dog gotten inside my house? Now I’m a dog lover, my own German Shepard, who aint a wee yap, is being looked after by a very kind friend. But honest to god I crapped it big style.
I ran back downstairs and into the kitchen. Opened the back door and stood for a minute. Picked up my phone and wondered to call. The Pirate? He’s a fireman; he’ll know what to do. Oh but those bloody 400 miles again. My Da? Mmmm gammy arm, if the dug gets his other one he’s goosed.

So I grew some baw’s and headed back up.
What’s that noise? Some diddy outside is revving his motor full pelt.
Then it dawned on me.
What a prize tit.
The eejit outside has one of those baked bean tins things on his exhaust. I felt like such a clown. So there wasn’t a big f*&k off dug under the bed after all. But I’ll tell you this; it took quite some time for the adrenalin to wear off and for my heart rate to return to normal.
The joy of living by ones self.

Jimmy Choos For Me Too?

First day back at work today.
Normally a day of post holiday blues. But for me it felt like I was the new girl all over again.I started my new job just three weeks before my hols. An induction period with some great help from the girl I'm taking over from. A burd who I would love to work with. I was sad to head away knowing that she would be off on her maternity leave upon my return.

Crackin lassie, mad as a brush and even given her advanced state of gestation arrived for work every day fully colour coordinated top to toe. Nails, shoes, jewellery, lippy. The lot. This is in stark contrast to the sports therapist side of her who runs on to footie pitches with a heavy sports jacket and a pair a fitba bits. Sometimes you meet people you just click with instantly, well Ann is one of them. I wish her all the best with her new bambino.

During all this time the gaffer was on holiday so I didn't meet her properly until today. I needn't have concerned myself. An equally crackin burd. I was well impressed by her.

I left a wee message on Allybea's blog whinging why I cant wear Jimmy Choos. Well, my new gaffer is like me; not exactly vertically challenged and she laughs in the face of the tallist and wears heels to die for. Maybe I can learn something her ;-)

So, a bit about running.
I've not managed much recently. A wee canter round Ashtead Common the other week. A wee donner round Strathaven including a few hill reps (for the Pirate not me). Still dogged by an ITB pain. Today I donned my kit, even though it was raining and forced myself to place one foot in front of the other a pace akin to dashing to a campsite lavy. Hail Hail, no ITB issues. Maybe I can be a runner after all. Is it a bit sad of me that I WANT to be?

Catchya,
Mrs Mac x

Making Memories

Ah that’s better.
Tea from a china mug, summer duvet on the bed, toilet less than 20ft away and no screemin weans from the tent adjacent.
Makes camping sound like a lot of fun right?
Mmmmmm, well I have been a camper since I was knee high to a grass hopper and my wee lassie had her first encounter when she was but a babe in arms around 9 months old. I have some crackin memories of running around camping fields in my jammies and trying to locate my tent with a million-candle torch!! My Dad was always a sucker for over exaggerated advertising.

Camping with the Brady bunch was always going to be a military operation. Add in a few Welsh’s for good measure and that’s a serious amount of mobilisation required. Oh and I forgot to mention the presence of Billy the Bank and his missus and he’s in a wheelchair!! WTF, are we mad?
Holiday – break, rest, retreat, escape.
My experience was none of these. I have since learned that camping with children is – a series of tasks linked by sleep.

The site; Haven by name hell on earth by nature is a melting pot of tattoo stamped, cigarette smoking, footie shirt wearing f*%k wits with a penchant for flashing lights and bad karaoke. I might sound like a total snob but this was not my idea of a blissful family holiday. We reckoned that as we were gonna have 6 or 7 children ages ranging from 6 to nearly 16 then a venue which on the face of it would cater for all tastes would be a smart move.
The reality being the older weans ran about like eegits playing with the wee ones and thoroughly enjoyed themselves too. No need for organised clubs and activities.

Its funny though, how the mind works. A bit like childbirth. You swear at the time you’ll never do it again. But then the good things, the nice memories take hold. Like sitting on a beach miles and miles long. With a partially blue sky and a wind that could knock Nelson off his column watching children laugh and giggle as the dare each other to submerge themselves in the frosty waters of the North Sea. Or seeing the look on a child’s face when they become totally captivated by history and education. Who new archaeology could be such fun?
Life for a parent is about making memories for your children. I take a lot of pleasure out of doing that for mine and those close to me.

So, my lot are off with their Dad for a week. The Pirate and I are hoping to squeeze in a fly weekend of wild camping and WHW route bashing. Now that sounds more like fun to me. Either that or a big fluffy duvet and room service in some secluded country house hotel somewhere. What are my chances???

Mrs Mac x