I am OK

I decided against asking a doctor for help to stop me feeling sad. I guessed I'd eventually feel sadder for taking tablets. I'm pretty sure I'm not clinically depressed. It's my lifestyle getting me down. Eating too much, exercising too little, few interests outside the home...

I sat with Clare on Sunday morning and wrote a five-year plan. It pains me to admit it, sounds like something I would laugh at.
It wasn't a pointless task, as I thought it may have been. I realised how many things were in my reach. How many small steps I can make to improve my 'well-being'.

On Saturday morning, I was delighted to receive a surprise package from Curtise. The scarf reminds me of the blog header. The turquoise bangle is the missing twin of my black one - how sweet. There were also purple tights in the package, which I wore today with my 'new' granny shoes. Don't you just love it when someone describes your outfit, or a meal you've prepared as 'interesting'?
That's what I was told about both recently. "Shit shoes and unpalatable meal Lucy". That's whatyou WANTED to say, isn't it?

Thanks Curtise - you got my weekend off to a brilliant start with your kindness.

So, this week, I started to clear my wardrobe.My wardrobe rail had buckled with the weight of all my coats, I was forced to get rid of 50% of my clothes.

 I will be giving lots of these clothes away very soon - I'll photograph some of the items and my readers can have first dibs (what does 'dibs' mean?).

I spoke to a blogger who has been following me since the start - she was as lovely as her blog. Swore more than I imagined, but in a posh voice (!).

I volunteered my services at the local Women's Aid.

I started a short story for a magazine competition. I baked a lot.

Most importantly, I resumed running after a sedentary fortnight.

I wore a light rain jacket, it belongs to Liam. It's a garish garment, I look awful in it, but with the exception of trainers and lycra trousers, I refuse to shell out on special running clothes.

Vicky and Charmaine are graceful, dainty ladies who wear size 6-8 clothes. We met up to run together.
They wore coordinated lycra running clothes and looked every inch the fit, lithe sporty type.
I was dreading the run, I knew I'd wheeze and struggle, and imagined every passer-by thinking "look at that poor fat lady  trying to keep up with those skinny girls".

We ran along a cycle track, dodging dogs and their turds, inhaling the odd gnat,  commented about it being nice to get out of the house, escape the children for a while.
By the time we were back on the main road, after about a mile and a half, Vicky spotted a former running partner of hers, he stopped to talk. I don't like stopping when I run. He told us about   completing the London marathon, introduced his girlfriend, who looked less than pleased about running with him, and about talking to us.
She seemed to warm to me, the most - probably because I looked unfit and scruffy.

Once we resumed running, we quickly picked up the pace. I needed my asthma pump. Unbeknownst to me, a few pea-sized pieces of pocket debris had collected in the mouthpiece of the pump. These made their way straight into my respiratory system, causing me to choke, splutter, cough and spit. I was unable to take a deep enough breath to speak, and explain what had happened.

I ran for another five minutes, and took a short-cut to my house. I felt a right idiot. As I sit and type this, my chest still hurts a bit.


Now, I feel better. A lot better.