Race For Life

Anyone who knows me know I’m not the biggest fan of getting off the sofa and actually doing something. In fact tonight, in a bout of forgetfulness and cold and flu symptom induced idiocy, I completely forgot it was aerobics night, until Mum phoned me at 6 o’clock (when the class was due to start) at which point I was sat watching telly with a whole pizza on my plate about to tuck in.

However, and largely because I do regularly eat whole pizzas by myself, I am trying to get into running. Changing my eating habits would be hard – I figured starting an exercise regime would be the lesser of two evils on two counts. One, it would probably be easier than dieting (I really like cake) and two, I thought it would be better for me in the long run.

So, as long time readers will know, I joined a gym, and except when I completely forget to go, I’d been having a reasonable time with it. But our gym is small and stuffy and not terribly motivating, and it costs a lot of money. When my membership comes up for renewal in september I won’t be forking out £300+ quid for another year.

To this end, I am trying to get into running.

Now, perhaps foolishly underestimating our ability, Mum and I signed up to do a 5K Race for Life a few months ago, figuring by the time we got to do it, we would be fit enough. Now, a whole catalogue of things have transpired against us – including my dodgy hip injury and various illnesses, but we also didn’t train as often and as hard as we should have.

However, when we came to do the race last sunday, we were both very proud of our achievements.

It was a beautiful day – a little bit too hot for running up a great big hill, for my tastes, but I couldn’t complain about the beauty of the summer sunshine and the location, Weston Park. The sight of 3000+ women dressed in pink was very motivating and despite some trepidation, I was excited to get started.

We ran (very slowly) for a good 1.5K. Which in itself was an achievement, as many of the ‘joggers’ underestimated themselves considerably more than we did, piling to a halt at about 200m. Dodging in and out of the crowd was difficult, and after a while proved impossible as the terrain turned to hill and narrowed considerably. I got cut off from Mum and was unable to catch up with her for the rest of the race, which was a bit of a shame, but as she so succinctly put it: by the halfway mark, we were in no shape to be talking.

It didn’t seem to take very long to get round, and though I walked a fair way, I still had the energy to do a mad burst of proper sprinting running at the end. Mum had already made it to the finish a few minutes before me and cheered me through the finish line.

It was an emotional and inspirational day, and I have surprised myself by wanting to do it again. Which to me suggests that I might actually be getting into this running lark.

To that end, I’m not going to tick off the ‘Run 5K’ on my Day Zero list until I can do a Race for Life and actually run the whole way. We’re going out for a jog this saturday to pick the training regime up properly. This time next year maybe we’ll be thinking about running 10K!

(Picture ruthlessly stolen from QWERTYmum who did a much better write up than me. I blame illness.)

Guns Are Sexy. Sometimes.

It is a sad fact that right now, despite things supposedly ‘winding down’ at work right now, not helped by a series of busy weekends, I am so thoroughly exhausted that I’ve barely been able to lift my backside from the sofa most nights.

Which means instead of writing, blogging, reading, music, visiting friends I’ve not seen for months, and all those other things that generally make life interesting and enjoyable, I have been limited by my severely compromised mental capacity to watching reruns of Primeval, 80s sci-fi films and Supernatural.

While this is not particularly conducive to having a life, or general progress on the ‘I am not an adolescent nerd’ scale, it has made me realise something.

Guns are seriously sexy.

Sometimes.

The ‘sometimes’ part of this realisation is due to the fact that almost everything I watch is science fiction or fantasy. I hate war films, I generally hate crime films (with a few notable exceptions, such as the excellent Silence of the Lambs, and the less excellent but still entertaining Smokin’ Aces (I have a serious girl crush on Alicia Keys…)) and while I could play Halo for hours, you won’t catch me on Call of Duty unless I’m facing down some Nazi Zombies.

The reason for this is I really don’t like guns being used against people. I don’t care if they are evil bad guys, soldiers battling to free a country from dictatorship or whatever – it doesn’t do anything for me. If I don’t find it quite horrible, I generally find it boring.

My cousin nagged and nagged at me, once upon a time when we were small enough to still have sleepovers, to watch his favourite film, Saving Private Ryan. Apart from having a serious crush on the sniper dude (which had more to do with his turn in the Green Mile than anything) I really didn’t enjoy the film. I just didn’t get it. Why would I want to watch two hours of people shooting at each other? I see enough of that on the news.

So this picture (aside from the fact that it is Josh Duhamel) really shouldn’t do anything for me. Soldier = not hot. In much the same way as firemen are not hot. In fact, for a while the Boyfriend entertained the idea of joining the RAF as a firefighter, and while I would have supported him if he had been successful, I couldn’t help feeling a little glad he didn’t get through. Despite his constant insistence that he wouldn’t be a front line soldier, and his job would largely be less dangerous (less fires) than the one he does now, a part of my brain couldn’t get past the thought that being in the Armed Forces equates to getting shot at. Not good.

But I digress, back to Josh Duhamel. The image should not be attractive, but, the fact that weapon (bazooka? Rocket launcher?) is pointed at a GIANT TRANSFORMING EVIL ROBOT suddenly makes it very sexy.

Similarly, I could watch the Winchesters stalk around abandoned buildings, guns before them all day. Guns loaded with bullets to kill people? Not cool. Guns loaded with rocksalt to take on ghosts? I think you’re probably sensing a pattern here.

And if I had to chose a weapon for use in battles against paranormal, alien or robotic enemies, it would have to be the shotgun. How cool is it when Kyle Reese takes on the Terminator with a shotgun in the first film? It’s the ultimate zombie fighting weapon, too. Perfect for the first person shooter of my particular talents, who can only generally aim at the sky or the floor with any consistency, but that’s another matter.

And because I’m feeling gratuitous, have a picture of my favourite shot gun wielding boy. I couldn’t find a picture of my favourite moment: Becker and shotgun vs. Giganotosaurus, so have a picture of Becker and shotgun vs. gigantic future ants instead:

I do occasionally entertain thoughts about trying to shoot a gun myself. There must be some sort of adventure experience where you can learn how to fire a gun. Or clay pigeon shooting or something. It would be in the name of research, of course – I write fantasy/science fiction, and often have characters that wield guns. But then I remember that guns are actually scary and dangerous and the desire goes away. Until I watch Torchwood or something again.

Of course, I know for a fact that if I was ever handed a gun, the first (and likely only) thing I would do would be this:

(This post was written under the influence of extreme exhaustion. I apologise for any blathering and general incoherency.)

The Writing Workshop: What Today Meant

This week’s prompt was way too much fun. So many different ways it could have fit into the Fairies universe. Decided to go for this interpretation of the prompt – something a little different to all the previous instalments, but I hope you still enjoy. Once again, check the writing tab for the rest of the stories in the series if you wish to read them!

What Today Meant
by Liberty Gilmore, 05/07/11

When Adam can’t say the words, he tries writing an email.

 Dear Ava,

I know it’s a bit old school to write a letter (or an email in this case) but this was really too much to say in a text message, and I don’t have all that much credit. Downside of being a poor teenager too young to get a proper job and too pathetic to do a paper round. Maybe I should get down the gym and pump some weights, hey? Maybe then I could lift a sack full of newspapers. Wouldn’t do much for my inability to balance on a bike mind…

And I’m waffling… Sorry about that.

The thing is, I’m writing you because, to be quite honest, if I tried to say any of the stuff I’m working myself up to typing… Well, the fact that I have to work myself up to type it probably tells you clear enough what I’d be like if I actually had to say it.

Today (in case you don’t check your emails for a few days and don’t look at the date or something) was the day you and Holly had that big fight. I don’t know what it was about exactly, but you’d been kinda pent up since the fashion show, so I’m sure Holly did something annoying and Holly-ish and you got annoyed and she got stroppy because you got annoyed, which probably annoyed you even more and so on. Whatever, it’s none of my business, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t glad you guys fell out. In the horrible, selfish, nasty corner of my brain I was. I really was.

Not straight away. I’m not that horrible. But I doubt that you’d have found your way to me if you and Holl hadn’t had a bust up.

You seemed determined not to talk about anything serious. You talked on at me for ages about stupid things like what your classmates were up to – that girl who’d switched boyfriends three times in three weeks and all those other ridiculous things. You seemed almost envious of them, and I wondered about it, because you’re so amazing – why would you want anything that those idiots have? You’re so much better than any of them.

You’re better than me.

That’s why it meant so much that you talked to me. It should hurt that you only seem to find your way to me when you’re upset, or hurting, but somehow I think that you’re more real, closest to who you really are when you’re that way. Even though you were talking about rubbish, you let little glimpses shine through. Like the envy, and like the way you smiled brightly enough to banish some of the darkness from your eyes when you talked about travelling to the wilderness, like that guy in the year above you. Like the way you let that darkness, that sadness show enough that it took that much to banish it. You’re kind of a closed book most of the time, like you don’t really want anyone to see the real you. And I don’t think you can even begin to imagine how much it means that you trust me enough to show that side of yourself to me. To stupid little me.

Ava, I

***

Adam paused, his hands hovering over the keyboard.

It was no good. He couldn’t even type the words.

Adam moved the cursor over the red cross and clicked it.

If you navigate away from this page, all changes will be lost. Click OK to continue, or Cancel to stay on this page.

Adam sighed and clicked OK.