The night before the half-marathon. The Watson household is fizzing with anticipation and nervous banter. We’ve all been preparing in our unique ways:
Lucy has been working at Toys R Us and worrying about the run;
Emma has been stencilling THE MOLDOVA PROJECT onto T-shirts for us to wear;
Paul has been mostly eating, and last night consumed a moussaka intended for eight people;
and me, I’ve basically been pushing Kit in his buggy, working on my TV pilot, and occasionally pausing to think ‘fuck me, I’m about to run 13 miles’. I did have a deep tissue massage this morning, though. I enjoyed it, but to be honest, the way life is with a six-month-old, just lying down in a dark room for an hour would be a tweet whether someone rubbed your legs or not.
We should all be in bed now so I’ll sign off. Naturally, tomorrow there will be a full report on what’s being called the biggest sporting event in the Watson family since our floodlit table-tennis tournament on holiday in Italy last year. Brief summary of my worries:
-Getting trapped behind really slow people
-Or trying to go too fast and burning out
-Trying not to go the toilet because of prohibitive queues, holding on too long, ‘doing a Paula’
-Failing to finish the bastard thing
…on which note, thank you so much for all your generous sponsorship. Incredibly, we’re now past £1000. Which is lovely. But it will be a lot nicer if we succeed in actually running this race. Goodnight.
UPDATE: I wrote ‘tweet’ instead of ‘treat’. That truly is a sign of the times. I’m leaving it as it is.