Wednesday, September 30, 2015

A Cautionary Tale For The Spouses Of Marathoners

I've been tired this week. Achingly, bone-weary tired. And cranky. Look-at-me-sideways-and-I'll-poke-your-eye-out-with-a-blunt-chopstick tired. And talking about chopsticks - I've been hungry too. Rungry.

I guess it's to be expected. I just ran my peak week of marathon training and marathon training is not for the light-hearted,

Special dispensation should be made for runners in and around peak week of marathon training. Especially by their spouses. We might glare at you for eating too loudly. We might threaten physical harm for eating the one and only thing in the full refrigerator that we were craving. We might go one step further and punch you on the arm for deciding to mow the lawn when we were trying to nap. We might be totally and unfairly unreasonable but in our exhausted brains be able to convince ourselves that our thinking is reasonable and fair and just.

I'm telling the following story as a cautionary tale to the uninitiated marathoner's spouse or the spouse who still hasn't understood the rules to living with a marathoner in heavy training.

A week and a half ago I went down to Sydney with #2 son leaving my very own marathoner's spouse home alone for 2 days. Before I asked, being a loving and caring wife, I asked him how he'd be filling his time. Apart from sitting on the couch naked, eating crackers and cheese and gherkins and watching the sci-fi channel. And he told me that he was planning on patching up the paint in the toilet.

Now our toilet is tiny. I painted it last time and it took me less than an hour. In the twenty years since it was done it's had one of the boys fall against the wall and crack the fibreboard which was patched and painted in a slightly different shade of blue. Then we replaced the old toilet that used to get blocked frequently with a shiny new one that only blocks occasionally. The new one had a different sized cistern so our toilet wall had a nice outline of the old one. It was sadly in need of a new paint job.

I suggested in not too whiney a voice that he might paint the whole thing rather than just patch it. He looked horrified. Not at the amount of time that it would take away from his naked, cracker, cheese and sci-fi fest but because he would have to choose the colour of the paint. Because he would get it wrong.

I assured him, in my marathon-addled-brain state that it couldn't go wrong if I gave him a fabric sample to colour-match fairly closely. So I found something that I liked the colour of and left it for him to take on his paint-shopping expedition. He couldn't possibly get it wrong, could he?

When I came back from Sydney exhausted but elated two days later I found out the answer to that question. First thing I did when I walked into the house was have to use the facilities and when I turned the light on I was flabbergasted. Where was the nice calming grey-blue that I'd chosen? Had I got it wrong and not realised that it was almost an aqua blue that clashed so badly with the adjoining bathroom and bedroom?

I got out the piece of fabric that I'd carefully chosen for him to match and it was nothing like it. So now I was left with a very hard choice to make. Be a kind and loving wife and ignore the ugly colour clash for the next twenty years till it's due for its next paint job? Or be the nasty bitch wife?

Because I was at my most vulnerable because of the demands of marathon training. Because all my resources were going to just getting from one run to the next because of marathon training. Because I had no energy left to squash down what I was really thinking because of marathon training I chose option number 2.

He didn't take it very well. At first. But when I admitted that I was being a bitch but that I was HIS bitch he softened a little and said it was the nicest thing I'd said to him in years. And I got my toilet repainted. But this time I chose the colour.

So the moral of the story is if your spouse is in the throes of marathon training and goes away for the weekend, do not decide to paint anything. But if you really can't resist the lure of the paintbrush, take the colour swatch along with you to the paint shop and don't try to remember the colour. But if you do choose the wrong colour, just be gracious when your marathon-crazed spouse has a hissy fit and repaint the damned toilet without complaint because really this is a fight you won't win without divorce proceedings.



And, for the love of God, DO NOT rearrange her wardrobe while she's away. Even if you think it works better that way. She will not thank you for it. But that's a story for another day.


Sunday, September 27, 2015

Saturday's Run

I had to run my one and only 37k run for this marathon cycle last Saturday.

I missed my other two 37k-ers because of my hammy and a badly timed race so I needed to get this done. But come Friday night a little dread had set in. And by Saturday, when my alarm went off (at 3:25) I was trying hard to remember why I profess to love running and who had brain-washed me into thinking another marathon was an awesome idea.

Yes, even die-hard runners have days when they'd rather not get out of bed. Sometimes the distance seems too daunting and the voice of doubt too loud. 37 kilometres is a really long way. It's well over three hours of running. Well over three hours of sweating and having your feet hurt and having bits of elastic that are preventing things from bouncing around too much rub you raw. And that's where my head was when I started.

"37k!! I'm tired already and we haven't even finished the first k. I shouldn't be counting k's already. Should have brought enough money for a taxi."

"Good that's 2 done. Only 35 more to go. Would anyone notice if I cried just a little? Not a big ugly cry cause I couldn't run if I was crying that hard - just delicate little tears running in small rivulets down my face with no actual sobbing."

"What pace is this? Should we be going this fast? Why am I running with the fast boys again? Stupid! Stupid!! Stupid!!! You're going to regret this."

"It's so hard to have a Gaytime on your own. It's so hard to have a Gaytime on your own. It's so hard to have a Gaytime on your own. Bet the person who wrote that ad is regretting it now. Stupid ad. Maybe I should stop and buy ice cream on the way home"

"I think I need a toilet. Will they wait if I go? They have to wait cause I don't know the route and I'm directionally-challenged and I don't have a phone so I could be running around Brisbane lost for hours. Nah I don't need to go."

"Toilet's locked."

"Yep, definitely need to go to the toilet. Only have to get to Mowbray Park. Can I hold on for 3 more k's? Oh well, there's always trees and it's still pretty dark."

"I hate hills, I hate hills, I hate hills."

"Yay, the toilet's unlocked. It's the little things ..."

"10k done only 27k to go."

"Feeling better now. Maybe I just needed to warm up. 10k is a long warm up. How fast are we going? I was only planning on 5:30s. Why am I running with the fast boys?"

"I hate hills, I hate hills. That's right I really hate this hill. You think you're at the top, you turn the corner and there's still more hill to go."

"I like downhills!"

"Damn, I thought we'd be stopping at that park. Keep running. Stop thinking."

""It's so much lighter now than when I ran this route last. Summer's coming. I hate Summer! At least I'll be finished marathon training before it gets too hot."

"I thought it was going to rain. Where's that rain I saw on the radar? I wouldn't have worn this stupid cap if it wasn't going to rain. I hate caps. I hate hills, I hate hills, I hate hills!"

"Where's that water stop? Oh up there where that man's having a drink. Hey it's Nige!"

"I hate hills, I hate hills, I hate hills!"

"Longest downhill ever. I love downhills. I love gravity. I love running fast. Oww my toenails are hitting the front of my shoes. I hope I don't get another black one. Not before the marathon. I hate downhills!"

"Active wear, active wear, buying active wear in my active wear. Where's that Lorna Jane factory?"



" Lift up your feet. Lift up your feet. Don't trip over the roots. This is like trail running. I don't like trail running. I like the idea of trail running but I don't actually like trail running. Where's the footpath start again?"

"Finally, some nice scenery. Love running along the river. Ooh there's a runner up there. I think we can take her. I like her top. Nice colour! I wonder where she got it from. Nope, don't like the straps. I knew we'd pass her."

"How come she's passing back? It's not a race lady!! We've already run 26k. You've probably only just started."

"Nearly down to single digits. Yay!! I think I'm going to make it. Hey isn't this near Chester Street Bakery? I could really go for one of their cakes about now. Except that I've only got $5 on me. Wonder if Ian has any money. I'm sure he wouldn't mind a slice of cake. We could split the cost."

"So tired! My feet hurt. My calves hurt. My shoulders hurt. My neck hurts. My head hurts. Of course it hurts. You're training for a marathon stupid! It's supposed to hurt. Just surrender to the pain. Accept that it's a part of the process."

"I hate pain. I hate pain, I hate pain."

"I know where we are now. Finally! Yep, you boys can run as fast as you like. Don't care any more because I can't possibly get lost. Wish we didn't have to go over the bridges again. Bridges are hills. I hate hills."

"Nearly there. Wish I could stop. Nearly there. Wish I could stop. Nearly there. Wish I could stop."

"Last bridge. Last hill. Only 2k to go. I'm not getting off the couch all afternoon."

"And we're done. 37k finished! Great run boys!!"

PS - I didn't leave the couch for the rest of the day. Apart from getting up to go to bed and having a real sleep. And getting up to get food. And liquids. Yeah, it was a great run.



Wednesday, September 23, 2015

Banishing Demons

I was really happy with how I ran on Sunday. Really, really happy. But the run wasn't what I was happiest about over the weekend.

I've talked in the past about my anxiety before races. And when I've had to fly. It's stopped me from doing a lot of stuff. I haven't gotten on planes at the last minute. I've missed out on weekends away. I've spent days with a big lump in my stomach not being able to eat properly because it's hard to swallow with that big lump in your stomach. I've had to be medicated to travel. And to stand on the start line of races. In fact my entire trip to Canberra for the half marathon last year was only done with the help of little white pills.

Not something I'm proud of. But not something I've ever hidden because I know I'm not alone in this.

Most of the time I'm fully functional but just certain situations bring out the fear. And it can be debilitating. Try running a marathon or half marathon on nearly no food. And I'm not just talking about the day before. The lack of eating can happen for almost a week in anticipation. Great for weight control but hopeless for a good race.

Last year I had to accompany someone close to me to a psychologist and in our visits the psychologist picked up on my tendency to anxiety. He claimed that he could help so I set up a couple of appointments with him to see if I could get my imaginary monsters under control. We did some work on motivations, gaining perspective and self talk. It was an interesting process but I wasn't sure that it had really helped. I couldn't be until I put it to the test.

And I've put it to the test in race situations quite a few times this year. And every single time I've been able to draw on what I learnt to banish my demons. I can honestly say that I've stood on each start line relaxed. Calm. At peace.

It's been awesome.

I've come to embrace the joys of carb loading. Something I couldn't face before. For this long-time calorie watcher, having to stuff yourself is a real pleasure. I can talk about the race before hand without wanting to rush to the toilet and vomit. I can be like all the other runners who line up and enjoy the day.
Yay - I can eat before I race!

But last weekend's event was a whole different scenario. It was the first time that I had to get on a plane. And I wasn't really sure how my new-found powers were going to hold up.

I'll admit to a couple of mornings where I woke up thinking about the flight. But I was able to manage those thoughts without them escalating. And any time I could that little pinch of anxiety I could talk it away. Not out loud - cause that would make me look like a crazy lady!

What will stay with me longer than the feelings of satisfaction from a race run well, is the feeling I got when my son said "You're usually worried when you fly" after he'd noticed how relaxed I was.

Those sessions that I had have given me a whole new joy in life. Being able to do what you want to do without your head getting in the way is real freedom!


So I guess this post is really to encourage anyone who's had similar issues. A good psychologist can really help in managing those little foibles that make life harder. You don't even have to be as crazy as me to go.

Sunday, September 20, 2015

Sydney Half Marathon - Remembering Why I Love To Race

Standing at the starting line of the Sydney Half marathon yesterday I wanted to be anywhere else. I was tired. Dog-tired. Roll-me-into-bed-and-let-me-sleep-for-a-week tired. It'd been a hard week leading up to the race and the timing really couldn't have been worse.

But I was there. With my running clothes. And a race bib. So I guess I was committed. Except for in my head. I told myself that I could take it easy. Just do it like a training run. To be kind to myself. All I had to do was finish and if I finished under 1:50 I'd be happy.

It had seemed like such a good idea a couple of months ago when Josh had said he was going to do it and I'd decided to tag along. A fun weekend in Sydney. A little scenic sight-seeing tour on foot and lots of justification to eat.

Josh hadn't really trained for 21 kilometres but he wasn't unfit. Four indoor soccer matches, a 90 minute outdoor match and a mountain bike ride every week gave him a good base level but he wasn't sure if he'd last the distance.


We'd done this race together in 2011 and he'd done a little training for it then. And he'd flogged me. 1:43 on his debut. But he'd also done it in 2014 on even less training and he'd had to walk some. I'd been ribbing him all day before that he was going to be beaten by his mother but standing there before the start I really didn't care. All I wanted was for it to all be over.

The gun went off and we were running. And it felt hard. Really hard. My head was in such a negative place. I was dreading the later kilometres already. It's not good when you're anticipating kilometre 15 when you're only in the first one.

I had to give myself a stern little talking to. I told myself to relax. Don't try to push. That it'd feel easier when I'd warmed up. To listen to my music and take in the sights.

And the sights really were spectacular. Running along the Sydney Harbour Bridge. A beautiful crisp morning. Some blue skies even though we'd been promised rain. I would have been loving it is only I wasn't so tired.

I can honestly say that I hated every step of the first two kilometres. But somewhere in the third I started to feel a bit better. My guess is that it was because we'd stopped climbing and were getting a rest on a downhill. My splits dropped from 5:10s to 4:52 then 4:43 and all of a sudden I could see reward for effort and some of the negativity vanished. Not all, mind you. I knew it was a hilly course so I had no idea what toll those hills would have in the later stages. For now, though I just had to run each kilometre on its merits.

We ran through a tunnel on kilometre 5 and my satellite dropped out and from then on my watch beeped well after each of the kilometre markers. It told me I'd done a 5:15 for that kilometre but I knew it hadn't been that slow. Kilometre 6 was bang on 5:00. 7 and 6 were back in the 4's and we were running through one of the prettiest parts of the run - Mrs Macquarie's Chair - and I was kind of enjoying myself.

I hadn't seen Josh since somewhere in the first kilometre. He'd taken off and looked like he was running so easily. I'd given up on reclaiming the family Sydney winner's mantle. And it kind of annoyed me that he could run so fast without all the training that I was doing. But I was kind of proud cause he's my boy. I kept my eye out on the turn-arounds to spot a tall, extremely good-looking man (of course I'm not biased at all) wearing the official race singlet. It proved a good distraction. There were lots of runners wearing it so I'd pick out a likely candidate in front of me and try to get closer to see better. 

At around 10 or 11k I finally spotted him a little way ahead. Still running well and looking pretty comfortable. I slowly ran him down then patted him on the back and told him he was doing well as I ran past. And that's when my competitive spirit really kicked in. Once you run past a rival, no matter how friendly that rival is, you don't want to be passed back.

I won't bore you all with the splits but they were a bit all over the place. I'd have a couple of great kilometres then we'd hit another hill and I'd be back over 5 minute pace again. And the fact that my watch wasn't beeping at the markers didn't really give me any idea of what time I'd finish in. My fastest k was 4:39 and the slowest was 5:27. That one was up a long slow climb which almost broke my will to live. But I knew that after the turn-around (our last) there was a long downhill and I was really looking forward to that.

That 5:27 made me wonder whether Josh would be passing me back at any moment. He'd looked like he was running within himself when I'd passed him and I didn't doubt that he'd inherited my competitive spirit. So once I'd recovered from that effort I was back to pushing hard. 4:49, 4:51, 4:54. 

Running under the Sydney Harbour Bridge I could see the Opera House finally. It was still two kilometres away but I knew I had enough to push for home. 4:51. Almost there. Up a ramp, around a corner and there was the finishing line just ahead. I stopped my watch at 1:43:38. 20.95 kilometres - I'd lost probably 200m in the tunnel.

There's a special kind of happiness that comes with running better than you'd thought you could. I would have been happy with anything under 1:50. 

I stood around for a little while to see if I could see Josh cross the line then decided to go to our meeting point and as I walked I checked my phone. He'd texted to say that he'd finished and while I was messaging back I saw him. With a new friend who he'd run with for the last few kilometres. 



We met back up with friends and swapped war stories then it was back to our room for a shower, to pack and check out. 

And then it was time to refuel.


There are lots of reasons why I love to race.

Wednesday, September 16, 2015

And The Oscar Goes To ...


I need to insure my legs. Cause they're in the movies now. Truly!

Last week I went along to Bodytrack for my weekly torture session. Because of my cranky hammy I spent the first ten minutes or so with Dan checking out my strength, flexibility and other exercise physiology-type things. He was so impressed with the results of one of the tests that he decided to film it and show me.

By impressed I mean he was blown away by how confused my muscle firing patterns are. My hammy wants to do ALL THE WORK. And my lazy-arse glutes are just that. No wonder my hammy had a little hissy fit and downed tools for a while.

Dan was pretty pleased with his camera work/muscle testing multi-tasking and wanted to show me how weirdly I work so I sat up and pressed play.

video

I really didn't take a hell of a lot of notice of what he was wanting to show me. He might have seen strange things happening but all I could see was that I didn't have very much cellulite. And that I'd managed to pluck out all the freakishly long hairs that I'd found back there a few days beforehand. I may not be flexible enough to touch my toes but I'm flexible enough to see the hairs on the backs of my thighs.

Vanity thy name is woman.

At least I can run this shorts season in my short shorts without fear of what runners behind me are having to see. Not too much cottage cheese. No flowing locks in all the wrong places.

Admittedly I probably would have worn shorts anyway. Most of the time I figure if I can't see it then no one else can. Like that time that one of the Bronco's footballers walked in on me while I was having a shower at the UQ athletics track. My glasses were off so I couldn't see who it was - ergo he couldn't see me. Totally logical. In my head at least. But it is comforting to know that I'm not contributing to the visual pollution on the city streets.

And that hammy? So much better this week. I've run 2 X 20k runs, a speed session and that Sunday sanity saver between last Saturday and today and it's been a trooper. So much so that the physio said that I didn't need to come back - just keep on with the stretches, rolling and strengthening.

Sunday, September 13, 2015

Bad Runs, Good Runs

I had an awful run on Saturday. And I fell just a little out of love with it.

I'm not sure why it was so awful. It was slightly hotter but not too bad. I only had to run 20k and not 37 (under physio's instructions) It wasn't particularly hilly. Or stupidly fast. It just felt hard. Even before I'd run 5k.

I kept waiting for my second wind to kick in. It never came.

I kept trying to distract myself - not hard for the first bit when I was being told tales of hospital dramas and running over cats (or possums) which may or may not have already been dead. But definitely more of a challenge on the way home when the running seemed to get harder and harder and longer. I started planning out in my head how many water stops I could legitimately stop at just for another rest.

But in the end I made it. With a lot of support and encouragement. Thank God for running buddies!

But a run like that really messes with your confidence. Especially when you've got a couple of races in the not too distant future. While I was running I was seriously thinking of pulling the pin on them. It's been a good running year - why leave it on a sour note? Especially since it looks like this hamstring thing will be a long-term fix.

Saturday afternoon I moped around, trying to work out what had gone wrong and trying to get some energy back cause I felt so depleted. Exhausted. Drained. I ate like there was no tomorrow. Lots of carbs to help replenish my stores.

Then I woke up on Sunday feeling normal. Energetic even. Wanting to run. I tried to suppress the wanting-to-run feeling. To take the day off as a rest day but I found it way too easy to justify an easy Uni loop seeing as I was only allowed the 20k the day before and it was supposed to have been so much longer.

Late afternoon saw me checking the temperature and deciding that 23C wasn't too hot. I am sorely lacking in discipline when it comes to a run that I've convinced myself that I need. I was in a singlet, shorts and running shoes before Iven could get the dogs on the lead for their afternoon walk - last one out the door has to lock up.

And I was off. Not running, because there's a hill to get out of my street and it's a good excuse for a warm-up walk. But once I hit the top I really was off and it felt so much better than the day before. It was warmer than I would have liked. I had to make a toilet stop. Sweat dripped into my eyes and I couldn't see for the best part of a kilometre. But it was a good run. A sanity-saving good run. And I fell back in love.

I still haven't worked out why Saturday's run was just such a hard slog. Carb-depleted maybe? Although I'd thought I'd eaten okay the day before. It certainly wasn't because of a heavy training week because my hamstring had made sure of that. But it doesn't matter - not since running redeemed itself on Sunday.

I may even have had a bit of this to celebrate.


Wednesday, September 9, 2015

I Can Read Between The Lines

I have been positively overwhelmed by all the loving messages and kind enquiries after my devastating, minor injury the other day. It's been touching and heart-warming to feel all the support from my running and blogging friends. And, surprisingly, it's been a lot of my male running friends that have been sending the messages. Naww. Feeling all warm and fuzzy inside.

Or at least I WAS touched and over-whelmed until I started to read between the carefully crafted messages.There are messages within messages if you're canny enough to read them. And Canny is one of my middles names. Along with Bitchy, Crazy and Without-Filter - a hyphenated middle name is kinda fancy don't you think?!

Actually it was the last message that I received that made me aware that it wasn't necessarily MY welfare that all my friends were worried about.

"How are you feeling after missing your last 2 therapy sessions this week."

Do you know what that really means? Coming from a married man who knows how important his wife's therapy of choice (be it running, chocolate or wine or a combo of any of the above) can be to his own personal well-being. It's actually a desperate enquiry into the health of my nearest and dearest.

That question is basically saying 'Is Iven still alive??'

Of course he's still alive. The man's been my loving spouse for over 30 years now. I did promise for richer and for poorer until death do us part. Oops - that probably came out wrong.

But these are just words. I can give you real proof that he is as yet unharmed from my enforced rest from running. Proof of life.


See he's fine. And he's smiling on the inside.

And I'm fine too. 



Okay, not totally fine as you might spot from the glaring evidence in the photo. Yes, that's right - the piano has been dusted. In fact the whole room has been cleaned and vacuumed and that would never normally happen on a Wednesday after my 20k mid-week epic. A one hour walk/run with Toby does not make me exhausted enough. Toby, on the other hand, has been lounging around all day after his early start.

But seriously, the hammy is definitely improved from Saturday and my physio has given me permission to run as long as it doesn't hurt and that's why today's walk ended up being a run-walk. As long as I'm keeping a moderate pace there doesn't seem to be any complaints. I'll be running again (conservatively) on Friday then back to the physio to work out what to do on the weekend. 

Fingers crossed that I am miraculously healed and I get to run my 37k-er. Or else there may be a very different headline on Sunday's paper.



Sunday, September 6, 2015

Oops

I'm going to tell you something that's going to totally blow your mind.

Putting your head in the sand is a totally inadequate treatment for a running injury.

I kid you not!!

I know it's how a lot of us runners deal with our niggles but I found out on Saturday that it might not be the best recourse. Certainly running 32 kilometres on a twingey hamstring wasn't the best recourse. It most likely was the worst possible recourse. Ahh hindsight, you're wonderful at pointing out stupid decisions and rubbing them in my face.

So now there's this.


And yes, I've blown it up for extra effect and extra sympathy because the sympathy and attention I got from the little photos I put up on Facebook and Instagram were just what my bruised soul (which was only just coping with the thought of not running for a week or, gasp, longer) needed. I'm sure the bigger picture will bring an outpouring of which the world has never seen before. And with each message of support I will whimper a meek 'I'm sure I'll be fine soon, it's really not too bad - only hurts when I laugh' so you can all be astounded with my stoic bravery and optimism while simultaneously wondering how such a bright and intelligent woman who doesn't look anything near the 52 years she claims she is could be so foolish as to run 32k on a gammy pin.

I'll tell you exactly why I made that ill-fated decision. My running friends and the looming spectre of a marathon in about 6 weeks (really must book the plane flights) and a cake that needed to get to where it was intended. But mostly it was because of my running friends. 

I love, love, love these people. They've been the ones that kept me sane when my world was falling apart last year. They made me laugh. They made me forget about the awful horrible. They listened to me when I needed to talk about things. They put the world back into perspective for a couple of hours every week. And they're the ones that got me home on Saturday when I was sore and tired and had totally had enough. A couple of them even stopped and walked the last kilometre with me. Yeah, they're the friends you need when things are tough.

They're the main reason that I'm really hoping that my leg will only keep me out for a very short while. I'm off to the physio today (if I can get squeezed in) to get the verdict. I'm really wanting to be running by the end of the week just so I can hear more about the coprophagic dog and discuss the many reasons why dogs turn to poop-eating. And so I can get teased for three hours about how mesmerising my tights are. So I can pay homage to the camel-toe tree and laugh because we possibly all look a little crazy doing so.

Anyone got a miracle quick-fix cure?

If not I'll be forced to bake obsessively until I'm healed. And that's not a good thing when our household is light on numbers.





Wednesday, September 2, 2015

A Cautionary Tale to Anyone Contemplating Buying a Dog

I beat my alarm on Tuesday morning. By just a minute. I'd had my full allotment of sleep without the confused terror of an alarm wake-up. Winning! I just knew that it was going to be a good day.

Tuesday's one of my favourite days of the week. I've said it before and it still holds true. Yes, it's speed session and speed session holds a special kind of hurt but it's one of those sessions that challenges me and I always end up feeling immensely satisfied at the end for putting in a solid effort of hard running. Plus I have breakfast with a friend afterwards where we can talk about running to our hearts content without anyone's eyes rolling back in their heads.

So it was with a sense of anticipation that I got out of bed. I walked into the kitchen, turned on the light and peered through the darkness in the lounge room to get the sleepy morning greetings from the wolf pack when I noticed that something was wrong. A waft of something foul assaulted my delicate nostrils. And was it? Yes it was! Three dark patches on the carpet.

I flicked the light on. Ughhh! Someone had a sick tummy. A really sick tummy. A 'how in hell am I going to clean this slop off the carpet' sick tummy. And how was I going to get it done in the tight time frame before having to leave for speed.

I have to confess that I did momentarily think of leaving it for Iven to clean up. But there are rules in our house. Whoever finds it has to clean it. And because I made up the rule, I really am obliged to keep it. So I set about it. Wads of tissues in hand. Bucket of disinfectant and rags by my side. Eternally grateful that it was our bin pick-up day so that vile, disgusting plastic bag wouldn't be in there for more than a few hours.

I got it all done and was out the door on time. Which did make me wonder why I give myself so much time to get ready normally. I'm clearly capable of getting ready in less than ten minutes, having achieved that benchmark twice in the last week.

The session went well. Breakfast was nice and then it was back home to see if any more liquid brown joy awaited me. I peered into the lounge room with a little fear and trepidation. Phew! Nothing - except the lingering odour of what had gone before. So I decided to open up the glass doors and air the room. And that's when I found it. Ground zero. The plug that had been trying to hold back the tide. Luckily solid enough to just pick up (with a tissue not my hand - I'm not that gross!) and throw into the toilet.

But this was a gift that just kept giving. I flushed the toilet only to have it block. That parcel, so lovingly given a burial at sea, was threatening a resurrection. I grabbed the toilet brush and frantically jabbed and poked it into submission.

Note to self - buy a new toilet brush today!

This tale ends well. The toilet did eventually flush. Iven woke up before me the next day and got his fair share of cleaning duties - a good marriage is all about sharing. Ricky (yes, he was the culprit but who can be mad at a puppy who smiles at you and wags his tail pathetically because he's happy to see you even if he's feeling really sick) is now feeling much better.

Our carpet, however, will never be the same.


Ah the joys of dog-ownership!