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            Dear Blog,

Sorry, sorry, sorry .... I’ll try to work out how to speed up the cutting being loaded (Thinks ‘Who do I know who can sort it out for me??’ Alan Turing is a possibility. He used to run marathons; he has run the Rugby Marathon several times over the same course that I won a silver medal at the AAA Championships, can you believe.)

 A friend (eat your heart out Bloggie, I do have another one) down my club, Godiva Harriers, when they knew that my daughter was also running the London Marathon, suggested that after she had finished she would have time to get a cup of tea, have a shower, get changed, have a snack and get back to the finish line in time to see me trudge beneath the finish clock.

 ‘Shower’ .. questionable. ‘Get changed’ ... perhaps. ‘Have a snack’ .... possible. ‘Get back to the finish clock’ ..... probable. But to squeeze a cup of tea in as well is pushing it a bit far, don’t you think?

Two things to get your saliva glands working overtime in the very near future; a list of predicted times so far pledged and a list of items to flog on e-bay. But don’t wait to see the other times before you pledge, will you Blog. Have a go NOW. Getting the lists out is subject to me getting a bit of time to myself to do it. Can you believe ... not only does my wife hurt her ankle and has me running around after her like a demented chicken or a headless duck, but now she reckons she has got a bit of a sniffle. Monday she spent in bed, Tuesday swathed in blankets on the sofa, Wednesday coughing and spluttering. It really is getting me down. I mean, I don’t want to catch anything do I? Wearing this surgical mask is a bind. And you wouldn’t believe the cost of air sprays. Vitamin C tablets don’t come cheap either. Would you credit it? She asked if she could have a couple of my tablets yesterday. I had to be quite firm with her. Stick to your sweaty blankets I told her in no uncertain terms, I have an important date with destiny. I can’t keep fate waiting. There’s a medal at stake here to say nothing of all those pound notes being pledged for Tiny Tim’s and Newlife.

Bring on the Beecham’s powders, take the Tyrozets, let me at the Lemsips; it will take more than a snotty nose to stop the trudge to London. Was Dick Whittingham put off when his cat was mugged by a gang of hooded mice?

                                                Keep collecting, Colin