The Eleven O’Clock v Dublin 1798 Saturday 21st June, 2025

Each day for the remainder of June, I’ll post The Eleven O’Clock and aim to answer the following three questions in short sentences and/or very short paragraphs.

1. Where am I?
2. What am I doing?
3. What am I thinking about and feeling?

Of course, I would welcome any comments, humorous, poignant, serious, or otherwise.

1. On the landing, at my desk, windows open

2. Apart from typing this, I’m eating two pieces of toast – jam and marmalade, downed with a cuppa Tetley

3. I’m thinking about writing. To do that, I have to do some time-traveling, back to Dublin in 1798 in the smouldering pre-uprising heat of the Irish rebellion. And within that context, to move person A and person B around. Writing, I have found, is more like watching a film unfold in real time than planning too far ahead. By the end of today, or maybe early next week, I may have discovered how the novel ends, but for NOW, by now I mean the Tuesday after Easter 1798, person A has to brew some coffee on a riverbank and greet his work colleagues as if nothing is out of place. It’s all smoke and mirrors. Beyond Dublin, there are other thoughts, some continuous, but all are relegated to wherever the back of one’s mind lurks.

By the end of today, or maybe early next week, I may have discovered how the novel ends

Feelings? Not entirely settled. If the writing goes well, I will be absorbed in that other world with its feelings, its hopes, dreams, horrors, fears and so on. Until then, the things that may retreat to the back of my mind are not there yet. Mild anxiety in various forms over organising a social event next Saturday. Also a surprising burst of Strava joy that informed me that I had run far faster than I had thought earlier this morning to avoid the heat later in the day.

The Eleven O’Clock iv Not Filling a Kettle Friday 20th June, 2025

Each day for the remainder of June, I’ll post The Eleven O’Clock and aim to answer the following three questions in short sentences and/or very short paragraphs.

1.        Where am I?
2.        What am I doing?
3.        What am I thinking about and feeling?

Of course, I would welcome any comments, humorous, poignant, serious, or otherwise.

Post Four:

1.        Home.
2.        The literal answer: deciding it’s too late to fill the kettle, get wallet, phone, Amazon Return package sellotaped, sandals on, ready to walk to the PO and then to local barbers for 11.30 cut.
3.        Partly thinking how mundane today’s post will be and whether it’s OK to divert from a strict adherence to 11 o’clock on the dot? Replacing ‘deciding not to fill a kettle’ with describing my ‘fields and footpaths’ walk earlier in the morning. All that did serve to remind me that I don’t spend all my time in my rational mind, thinking, but, like Mary the mother of Jesus, and like all of us, I suspect, I also ponder things in my heart.

Feelings. If we are body, soul, and spirit, then ‘feeling’ can be through our physical senses – and I was feeling hot; it’s a muggy morning. Or we can ‘feel’ with our emotions – and I was on a fairly even keel. quite tranquil. Or we can ‘feel’ or sense spiritually – and I think, spiritually, I was taking a nap, having had an earlier workout listening to another Inspired podcast with Simon Guillebaud, this time interviewing Shane Taylor, an ex-violent man, often in prison, who was transformed after, in his words, Jesus walked into his life.

The Eleven O’Clock iii Thursday 19th June, 2025

Each day for the remainder of June, I’ll post The Eleven O’Clock and aim to answer the following three questions in short sentences and/or very short paragraphs.

1. Where am I?
2. What am I doing?
3. What am I thinking about and feeling?

Of course, I would welcome any comments, humorous, poignant, serious, or otherwise.

Post Three:

1. Home, in the kitchen.

2. Kneading dough – half wholemeal/half white bread flour + secret ingredient. Washing up & making cup of tea, white no sugar

3. Various overlapping thoughts playing in my mind, bit like a jazz band, each taking turns for solos. New lounge carpet fitted yesterday, so am thinking about next steps. Also listening to the story of Emma Scrivener, an ex-anorexic sufferer, on Inspired podcast with Simon Guillebaud. Earlier this morning walked/ran from Winscombe hill to Crook Peak and back listening to the podcast, so thoughts are rippling out during the day. During that walk/run had an unusual burst of re-imagination about Eden, amused how deep our preconceptions are – there’s no red apple in Genesis. Nor, as far as I know, is there any art that depicts Eden in anything less than a sunny day? I feel a poem brewing.

But how do I feel? Quite light. As if I have freedom of movement, like a fish in the sea. Thursdays have, since last September, been a tutor-oriented day. Morning and afternoon prep for 3 hours of 1:1 Chemistry. But now A-Level and GCSE exams are almost finished, I’m like a puppy off the leash, even if ‘freedom’ means the freedom to attack neglected chores. And eating fresh bread with butter and jam.

The Eleven O’Clock ii Wednesday 18th June, 2025

Each day for the remainder of June, I’ll post The Eleven O’Clock and aim to answer the following three questions in short sentences and/or very short paragraphs.

1.        Where am I?
2.        What am I doing?
3.        What am I thinking about and feeling?

Of course, I would welcome any comments, humorous, poignant, serious, or otherwise.

 Post Two:

1.        Ripley Antiques and Coffee Shop in hot & sunny Axbridge
2.        Sitting outside on the square, suncream on, waiting for food and drink for L & A & me
3.        Various scenarios about the house I have looked round with L&A e.g. refurbishing costs…feeling that they need to act quickly or someone else will nab it. Lurking behind this conversation are some deeper notes: personal rumblings, and international concerns connected to Israel/Iran

The Eleven O’Clock

Each day for the remainder of June, I’ll post The Eleven O’Clock and aim to answer the following three questions in short sentences and/or very short paragraphs.

1. Where am I?
2. What am I doing?
3. What am I thinking about and feeling?

Of course, I would welcome any comments, humorous, poignant, serious, or otherwise.

Post One:

1. Physically, at my desk at home, in Winscombe. Mentally, in Dublin, 1798.
2. Writing a tense scene for the sequel to my debut novel, due out later this year.
3. Thinking about the plot, how to get everyone from A to B, and their innermost hopes and fears. This has the delightful escapist side-effect of temporarily delivering me from giving undue attention to personal thoughts or feelings.

Two of My Favourite Things…but I’m not happy!

In front of me are a few items that have made it to my desk: a baseball, a rubber egg, a pile of old car tax discs, a Union Jack, three small champagne candles, a small clay pipe, and a photo of my daughters.

All these things carry associations that represent their true value to me, like Oscars for Oscar-winning performances. This post, however, concerns two of my favourite things at loggerheads with each other. One is threatening to evict the other, whilst the other claims to hold the moral high ground, heels firmly dug in.

I’m talking about (i) a log burner, and (ii) jackdaws.

I can’t remember when my love of jackdaws settled in my thoughts. Maybe a long-forgotten story from childhood, but through all the years in Kent, Exeter, then Bristol, I rarely, if ever, saw a jackdaw. Having recently moved to lovely Winscombe, I can’t say I’m tripping over jackdaws, but I do see some every day. And it makes me ridiculously happy.

Alongside jackdaws in the corvid family also lie crows and rooks. Fascinating as these clever birds are, it is the jackdaw that has lodged itself deeply in my affections.

The problem is that they are equally deeply lodged in the chimney; a nest of noisy Jackdaw chicks keeping their parents busy. Am I happy about this?

The truth is I’m torn.

My lounge has now become the dumping ground for large coils of elephant trunk-like chimney lining and a log-burner that can’t be installed pending the fledgling of all the young jacks…which could take over a month from now.

My other favourite thing is, of course, the log burner; a multifuel burner which has in-built ‘diversification’ wisdom…in case gas becomes hyper-expensive. I can incinerate just about anything and stave off hypothermia, but that’s not why it’s on my favourite’s list. I find that, even amongst avid environmentalists such as I, we all relish a ‘proper fire’. Who gathers round a pilot light in a boiler to watch the paltry flame? No one. We all like the combination of flickering flames, direct heat, crackling of burning wood, pulling the handle to open the grate, and feeding the flames with fresh wood.

So, I will have to just sit it out. The Jackdaws have legal protection and are staging a noisy sit-in. and the log-burner will have to learn the art of patience.

As will I.

Dad-daughter 10K challenge 2024-2025…Post X11 May 11th 2025 Final Post: Bristol 10K

The day has finally arrived. The Bristol 10K start was 8.30 a.m. and Rachel, in London, ran an equivalent 10K around Hackney’s Victoria Park at 10.45.

The culmination of our dual efforts to prepare for a 10K in 2025.

All along, the aim was to be a provocation to each other. Maybe a better word, though too mushy, is an ‘encouragement’, especially in the darker and colder wintry months.

Yes, I will report our separate times innabit, but there’s more to running than the Sports watch strapped to your wrist, or, in my case, Strava on mobile, stuffed in pocket.

The Bristol 10K is like a mass gathering of eagles or vultures (take your pick) diving on their prey. More than ten thousand descend on the city centre, streaming from all points of the compass, with running numbers and Zone colours safety pinned to running vests and t-shirts.

Not sure why, but I was placed in the faster Orange Zone, so spent the whole 10K being overtaken by faster runners rather than overtaking. You’ll hear many telling the same story that ‘adrenaline on the day sees you round’ or ‘the atmosphere is so great, you get carried along by the cheering crowds’; I don’t want to douse these descriptions in cold water, but when you’re struggling to keep going after 7K (like me) cheering crowds such thoughts, I found, are pushed to the rear of one’s consciousness!

The weather has been stupefyingly wonderful throughout April and May. Wall to wall sunshine. But that meant, even by 8.30, it was rather warm. Too warm perhaps…but even warmer in Hackney when Daut 3 set off.

Stats

Dad: 59.50

Rachel: 57.08

So, hats off to Rachel! And to her the bragging rights belong!

However, I’m rather chuffed. My three aims (i) run without stopping (ii) under my age (iii) under 60’ if possible.

If you’re thinking I waited under the finishing gantry to just shave the 60’ mark…nope. Anyone watching would have seen a different story etched on my sweaty brow.

My ‘no beer, no bread’ fast is over. A cold Guinness was had upon reaching home

My ‘no beer, no bread’ fast is over. A cold Guinness was had upon reaching home.

Cheers, everybody! I’ve enjoyed seeing how widely spread these bog-posts have been read, and I hope you’ve been entertained and, just maybe, they’ve pushed you to find those old trainers and give a Parkrun a go, or a local 10K…or further.

The final word, though, I will give to Eric Liddell, the athlete who starred in the 1981 film Chariots of Fire – I can only very faintly add my Amens:

‘I believe God made me for a purpose, but He also made me fast! And when I run I feel His pleasure’

“Out! Out! Out!” Anti-Hamas Protests in Gaza bring some hope.

It is 8am on Thursday morning. I have just returned from a morning walk across fields and footpaths. It was full of beauty and charm, but surprisingly cold, and I’m downing a cup of tea to warm up and have two jumpers on.

During the walk, I listened to Saturday’s edition of BBC Radio 4’s From Our Own Correspondent. The main report was from Gaza and Israel, and it gave me a glimmer of hope that this ghastly and grisly conflict might be drawing to a close.

The report was classic BBC. It told a fundamental truth wrapped up in an editorial attempt to be unbiased. It failed, and thankfully so, because the comparisons between Israel and Gaza proved to be compelling rather than the similarities.

The premise for the programme was to compare and contrast the protests in Israel with those in Gaza. In Israel, mainly in Tel Aviv, street protests against Netanyahu’s military strategy call upon the government to do everything to return the 59 hostages remaining in Gaza. In Gaza, there are now also anti-Hamas protests, demanding Hamas to relinquish their grip on power, shouting “Out! Out! Out!” referring to Hamas not the Israeli Defence Force (IDF) Hamas' iron grip on Gaza is slowly slipping as residents protest - Hamas' iron grip on Gaza is slowly slipping as residents protest - BBC News

The comparison between the protests in Israel and Gaza, however, highlights the truth, that Hamas is a cruel and heartless organisation that is not only responsible for the despicable atrocity on Oct 7th, 2023 murdering unarmed Israeli civilians in a kibbutz and at the Nova music festival, but intimidating its own population, suppressing dissent through imprisonment, torture, and murder. Israel, by contrast, is a democracy and dissent and public protest carries no threat of false imprisonment, torture, or elimination.

Gazan’s, once too afraid to speak against Hamas, are now doing so, so desperate are they to end the suffering brought on their heads by Hamas’s attack and subsequent declaration of intent to repeat such attacks, continuing rocket fire into Israel, resisting the IDF, refusal to return the hostages, and, ultimately, their refusal to lay down their weapons, surrender, and leave.

But now, Gazan’s are rising against Hamas, I might have grown cold on my walk, not having taken a jumper, but my heart and blood, chilled by events in Gaza and Israel, has begun to thaw.

Hamas, as I have written before, should hang their heads in shame and leave Gaza

Hamas, as I have written before, should hang their heads in shame and leave Gaza. Whether or not one believes in the Palestinian cause, their actions on Oct 7th and since then disqualify them from holding power. They must go. And all the hostages must be returned. Iran, which has funded and backed Hamas, is primarily responsible for rebuilding Gaza, but its poisonous anti-Israeli policies preclude it from any political process in Gaza after the war.

The lie undermining the Palestinian cause is that the only way to achieve justice is to oppose Israel, politically and militarily. The bible, however, teaches a different course altogether…and one that takes enormous faith.

To Abraham, God said:

‘I will make you a great nation…I will bless you…and you shall be a blessing, I will bless those who bless you and curse him who curses you’ Genesis 12v1-3

Is Israel perfect? No. Is it a hostile neighbour? Yes, some groups within Israel are like Nabal, Abigail’s husband, a scoundrel, evil and wicked (1Sam 25) and who view the Palestinians as impediments, obstacles in their way to recreate an Israel that mirrors the shouts of pro-Palestinian marchers ‘From the River to the Sea’.

Nevertheless, the word of God slices through all these objections and places a challenge at the door of Palestinians, Tehran, Damascus, London, and Washington: ‘Will you bless Israel or curse Israel?’

In conclusion, my heart was warmed. Some hope again circulating in my body and mind that the present conflict will end. Hamas has to go. But what will replace them? And what spirit will inhabit them? What attitude will they have towards Israel?

On that hinges the future of Palestinian prosperity and Palestinian-Israeli relations for the next generation.

Do they want God’s blessing or Tehran’s?

Dad-daughter 10K challenge 2024-2025… Post X1 May 4th 7 days until Bristol 10K 11th May 2025

Today my mind is elsewhere. Daughter 2, not Rachel, is getting married and I need to be in the right place at the right time later this morning, all suited and booted.

Nevertheless, with a week to go until the Bristol 10K, I can file perhaps my final Dad-daughter post until the post-10K report next Sunday.

I have no Rachel data to share, but did meet up with her and the rest of the family involved in the rehearsal yesterday and can report that she looks far more athletic than I.

‘Perception is reality’ is one of those phrases that out there that the unthinking nodding masses who delight in traversing life without stopping to ponder…Oh Dear! Grumpy old man speech underway, beware. Of course, there is some truth in such a statement; ‘mind games’ in sport is big business even if wrapped up in more professional speak as ‘Sports Psychology’.

On a very amateur level, we all know how true this is. Even the bible says in a note of reality ‘as a man thinks so he is’.

For me, the last week is a case in point. Whether I have been hiding a distracting set of emotions in the build-up to daut 2’s wedding or not, I don’t know, but what I do know is that I haven’t managed to complete a mid-week run, pulling up from a 10K after 6K and after 4K in a 5K run.

And yesterday, after halfway round the Parkrun, my mind and body were presenting every good reason under the sun why I should stop and slope off home.

Fortunately another voice prevailed which went something like ‘In a week, you’ll be running a 10K…you can’t cave in after a measly 2.5K…get a move on’. Maybe it was Mr Tutt, my old sergeant-major school PE teacher, back from the dead, but it worked…I did make it to the end.

Perception is reality - is it?

I was sure it was an embarrassingly slow time considering I have the 10K next week…but to my delight it was better than feared at 28:26….AND I’d like you to know, I was 1st in my age category! There were 6 of us stumbling round old enough to know better.

So…is perception reality? I thought I’d run out of gas. I also thought I was running slower than 30’ for 5K.

All one can really conclude, is that I’m loosing my grip on reality…but then a proud dad about to give away his daughter is surely entitled to some inner-entropy!

Dad-daughter 10K challenge 2024-2025…Post X 21st April 2 weeks + 6 days until Bristol 10K, 11th May, 2025

Since my last report, in which I seem to remember committing to run 10Ks every other day, nine days have passed.

The purpose of this post, therefore, is to maintain personal motivation through public accountability and possible humiliation.

Thus far:

Strawberry Line (South)15th April 10.06 km in 57:22

Strawberry Line (North) 17th April 10.02 km in 62:15

Strawberry Line (North) 20th April 9.02km in 54:04

A commentary

Yes, you needn’t say anything. Again, I’m getting worse the more I plod/run…’training’ is an exaggeration. But hang on, the truth is stranger than the data.

Run 1. After about 3K Strava is sent into the nether world of the Shute Shelve tunnel, and at pre-dawn, it is ink-black and I’m reduced to walking for fear of tripping over and making more of a fool of myself than running through a pitch-black tunnel in the first place. SO…the 57 minutes is as accurate as counting the number of humpback whales in the Atlantic, or predicting the length of a Premiership football match after VAR officials have read through the FA Handbook on handball…

Run 2. Strava is clever. This was ‘moving time’. I stopped, or was stopped, arrested by a tree here and a gate there gorgeously painted by the soft-dawn rays. Photos followed. Actual time was longer. But I’m unlikely to stop to take photos during the Bristol 10K. Am I?

Run 3. Was going well, or so I thought. But I conked out at 9K, having felt weary for the previous one or two kilometres.

‘If I was a betting man’ - I’m restricted to the Grand National and The Masters in some years, and rarely win a penny - I’d think twice before betting on myself to break 60 minutes, but I’ll give it a go.

The Bristol Course looks mean. That ‘orrible hill near the end and city-centre cobbles are designed to inject despondency and despair as the clock speeds up and the feet slow. Maybe that’s all in the mind? Well, maybe. But it’s in my mind.

Rachel…has gone to ground. Her previous recorded 5K at 26:44 equates to approx. 10K pace of 53:30 is far too fast, and my fears that she has peaked too soon…are impossible to verify. The latest press release from the R Training Camp is that her 2025 10K event will not be the Bristol…we await news.

The theory that Dad’s ‘every-other-day’ commitment to running 10Ks has rattled the young pretender is definitely worthy of further investigation.

For now, all I shall do is continue to plod up and down the Strawberry Line in hope that mind and body might talk to each other and cheer each other on.

Podcasts have included: Elizabeth Day’s How to Fail with Sally Philips was excellent…funny and honest. David Pawson’s Unlocking the Bible on John’s gospel was really good. And I quite like listening to Alistair Campbell and Rory Stewart as they squirm in the Trump era on The Rest is Politics.

Two weeks and six days.

Oh boy!

How to Eat a Hot Cross Bun

You might contend, with deep conviction, that there is no manual, no dictate, no regulation, or statute that exists to distinguish between those who know how and those who do not know how to eat a hot cross bun.

 But, if you are one of those who know how, then you are compelled by an equally deep conviction to share your knowledge gleaned from those who have gone before with those who do not.

 This distinction is on a par with those whose toes curl if milk is added after the tea is poured or are troubled by fellow travellers who care not to use a fork when with cake, or who’s inner peace is disturbed if male MPs enter the chamber unadorned with a jacket, or worse, lacking a tie.

Here are the twelve members of the Hot Cross Bun jury:

1.        Eat only hot when still springy – they are not fit for use as shot putts or cannonballs

2.        Employ your best blade to slice each bun accurately into two halves – ensuring that both sides are toasted at the same rate. Incongruency is disappointing

3.        Discard the grill in favour of a toaster – the horror of uneven, burnt, or worse, an underdone hot cross bun is more avoidable with using a toaster

4.        Toasted hot cross buns are to be caught mid-air as they are propelled vertically, perfectly toasted, from the toaster

5.        Butter always; other spreads are banished and not even to be mentioned

6.        Generosity is compulsory, especially in the butter department. The added slab of butter has to be thick enough so you can watch it melt. Thin-spread instantly-melted butter is not a thing of beauty

7.        No talking. If you are in the company of others, they must abide by this rule. Eating whilst eyes are closed is worthy of bonus points

8.        Jam is contentious. Applications to use jam should be lodged with the master or mistress of ceremonies well in in advance of entry into the toaster

9.        Never repair the hot cross bun so that it resembles a bun. This is a strictly ‘two-halves’ ritual

10.   The final bite should be savoured whilst there is sufficient heat in the bun to keep the butter melted

11.   The purpose of eating a hot cross bun is to enter into prayer, meditation, peace and stillness. By all means sit in a church pew and do likewise, but once you have permitted yourself hot-cross-bun-time, church can travel with you

12.   Hot cross buns only taste of hot cross buns in the run up to Easter. If you don’t know why, there are no words

If you are looking at the members of the jury, wondering whether the judge will take a majority vote, please be advised that eleven out of twelve simply will not allow you to graduate from the do not know hows to the know hows.

Standards must be maintained.

The 2026 examination season starts, as in previous years, on Ash Wednesday, the day after Shrove Tuesday, otherwise known as Pancake Day. ‘How to Eat a Pancake’ will follow shortly

Dad-daughter 10K challenge 2024-2025…Post IX 12th April 29 Days until Bristol 10K, 11th May, 2025

New home tucked under the picturesque Mendips called for a Google search to locate the nearest Saturday morning Parkrun.

I arrived at Axminster/Cheddar reservoir car park whilst there was still a nip in the air, wearing a woolly hat, soon discarded as the sun did its work. The route, fairly flat, winds its way around the reservoir then diverts along the Starwberry Line – the track of a disused railway line. Twice round, and then a short run across a playing field to the finish.

Trying not to look as exhausted as I feel. Lungs busting. My head tells me the scenery is unbeatable but the perpetual attempt to run at my limit tends to concentrate the mind on the next step, rather than appreciating the natural beauty al around the course.

I did pray. And it was fairly corny. ‘They that wait on the Lord shall renew their strength…will run and not be weary’ from Isaiah.

Meanwhile, in London, unbeknownst to me, daughter Rachel was hearing the starting claxon at exactly the same time, 9am, and propelling herself around another Parkrun, Victoria Park, Hackney.

There the similarity ends.

My time: 28:33

Rachel’s: 26:44

So, again, it’s well-done R. An impressive time!

With 29 days to go before the Bristol10K, what should be done? My intention is to shift gears in terms of distance, if not pace, from 5K to 10K two or three times a week. We’ll see.

Encouragement in life is as necessary as turkeys at Christmas. But where do we get encouragement from? It’s all a bit slippery, can’t be timetabled, and it’s not something that can be tamed…but neither is it completely random as if it’s just out of reach and subject to the whims of a capricious Universe or mischievous divine hand.

So, I take encouragement from looking back at my previous three 5K runs and the moderate improvement in times from almost 30’ to 28’30’’ ish - not a trend that should concern R…but I’m pushing!

I haven’t mentioned podcasts in recent posts. And neither can I today. Strava on knocked out my phone’s ambidextrous capabilities: it can’t handle Strava and YouTube videos at the same time. I had planned to listen to Jordan Peterson’s ARC conference speech whilst making my way round the course; doing so would have masked my wheezing at least from me! Alas, I had to wait until the car journey home for JP to let rip in my lug ‘ole.

Encouragement in life is as necessary as turkeys at Christmas. But where do we get encouragement from?

For me, JP is like a skilled physician; he’s taken the pulse of American and Western society and discerned its ills, its malfunctions, and, like a good professional, gives solemn warnings about the inevitable destination of the Western world if it continues to ignore the warnings. He can stare into your soul from the platform and deliver the direst of prognoses and leave you hungry for a cure.

But here is precisely the moment when I depart from JP. Good on diagnosis/prognosis, but I’m off for a second opinion…not about the diagnosis but the cure. The route back to health.

Enough, enough! This is a blog about running and the co-aim of a daughter and a dad to run a 10K in 2025.

But that’s the trouble with runners, especially slower runners like me, it gives you time to think…and when the legs are sending a message to the brain to Stop, to pray.

Dad-daughter 10K challenge 2024-2025…Post VIII 7th April 34 Days until Bristol 10K, 11th May, 2025

Yikes, Bristol 10K is closing in fast.

Since the last post, I have moved house, and this has seriously set back my plans to reach peak performance as we head into the closing stages. Or…maybe this is good. the peak, re-set for the day of the 10K?

If you’re sensing one of those ‘Oh! I seem to be getting slower not faster’ posts, you’d not be wrong.

This morning, just before sunrise, I set off for a swift 5K along the Strawberry Line from Winscombe north towards Yatton, the sun rising to my right. In the pre-dawn light, an illusion of speed took hold. I thought I was going well, especially after a lay-off to grapple with endless cardboard boxes and awkward furniture.

But Strava doesn’t lie.

5K in 29’56”

Meanwhile, daughter Rachel not only is averaging a faster pace, she is restricting herself to running 10Ks which, to me, feels like a marathon at the moment.

Her recent distances/times include:

April 5th 9.42 km 5:29 min/km

March 29th 10.03km 5.34 min/km

In other words, a projected time of 55’ for 10K…with Dad lagging behind, maybe breaking 60’

Of course, this NOT a competition.

Time is not everything. The weather for the past fortnight has been unbelievably sunny, cool, and still – ideal running conditions. And for walks. Yesterday’s hike was a 10K up Shute Hill and back to Winscombe via (posh) Sidcot. The Mendips at its best.

Back to this morning’s run, accompanied by Desert Island Discs with Cindi Lauper of ‘Girls Only Want To Have Fun-damental rights’ and how ‘True Colours’ became the LGBTQ+ anthem and the origin of the 6-coloured rainbow Pride flag first waved at a concert to honour a friend, Gregory who died from AIDS way back when.

For those that know me, you’d fall off your horse if I was to wave a Pride Flag…but…what is important in all these matters is compassion, and True Colours hits the target and some.

Those of a certain vintage, like me, will recall the tragedy of AIDS that ripped through LA initially before devastating the homosexual and heterosexual world. I remember a friend who spent time in Uganda asking why, in the bush villages, there were only children and grandparents. The lady guide pointed at the mounds of earth between the mud-huts. Graves for the parents. AIDS.

It was a great life story and interview interlaced by a great variety of musical choices from Sachmo to Maria Callas, and a great rendition of Hound Dog by Big Mama Thornton.

To conclude.

34 days to go. The ‘no-bread, no booze’ diet is more or less still in place. I suppose I ought to do some running now.

As for Rachel…calm down!

I Wonder what Abraham Did

What on Earth has moving to Winscombe to do with Abraham of the Old Testament?

In my head, quite a lot.

This is Day 5 of life in Winscombe. At this precise moment I’ve found my way to Lillypool Café, Shipham whilst my Astra is subjected to an MOT. Even that journey, from garage to café, exemplifies the move from city to country, walking as I did along footpaths and fast roads with no pavements, hanging onto sturdy branches as cars swept by. But surrounded by gorgeous frost covered fields, hillocks and birdsong.

Conversation at the garage:

‘How long, roughly?’

‘About 10.30. The café’s in the dip. Not much of a signal. Walk left, along the road.’

Not much of a signal is dead right. And where the new house is sat.

To my right, a bacon sarnie and a flat white, a warm radiator behind me, and good WiFi. Perfect.

Here’s a quick summary of Abram’s, later renamed Abraham, journey of faith. In Genesis 12 we read that ‘God had said ‘Get out of your country, leave your father’s house, and to a land I will show you’. Let’s assume that Abram heard this during his childhood, growing up in the city of Ur, Chaldea, 200 miles south of present day Baghdad, Iraq. Whether he told his parents we don’t know but Terah, his father, decided to emigrate to Canaan but fell short, settling in Haran, in present day Turkey. At some point whilst living in Haran, God spoke to Abram and said ‘Now, Abram, it’s time to go.’

Abram was 75 years old, was probably enjoying family life in Haran, he had a choice, to obey and have faith that God would lead him, step by step into a new land, with Sarai, his 65 year old wife.

If you’re thinking ‘OK, I can see some parallels, but…’ you’d be right. The purpose of this post is not to equate my minuscule adventure 30 miles south with Abraham’s 1200 mile overland emigration.

The point is downsizing. And what that forces you to do.

I suspect that Abram was living quite comfortably in Haran, surrounded by sheep and an extended family, albeit also with the continual grief of his brother, Haran’s premature death, a grief so deep that Terah named the place where they stopped after his son.

In order for Abram to leave he had to (i) tell his mother and father God had told him to leave his father’s house and  (ii) decide what to take and what not to take.

Some camels, perhaps, some belongings strapped to the camels. And how many items from his father’s house would he take?

Leaving doesn’t imply a lack of love or affection. At all. Hearing the voice of God is one thing. Exciting, maybe, but it has to be planted in the real world. I’m sure there was an emotional cost to cutting ties with his father and family.

Even Jesus had to leave his Father’s house to come to be born in a cattle feeding trough.

Abraham, Jesus…me?

Downsizing to a much smaller house has led to almost countless decisions of what to take and what to jettison. Five days in, and this process is nowhere near ended. Trips to Cheddar tip, Cheddar car boot sale, and copious use of black sacks crammed into the bin for this morning’s collection are likely to be repeated until surfaces are clear and cupboard doors can close easily.

That’s the physical.

Even Jesus had to leave his Father’s house to come to be born in a cattle feeding trough

For example, I’ve retained a painted picture-carving made by German P-o-Ws and resented to my father in WWII but reluctantly discarded some other paintings owned by him.

But there’s a spiritual dimension to ‘leave your father’s house’ that has been in place prior to moving geographically.

Abraham learnt everything he knew in his father’s house. Spiritually, I have learnt everything I know from my father’s house – which could be identified as a cocktail of Non-conformist/Charismatic/Evangelical Christianity. I was brought up in the Church of England. Faith was not spoken about, it seemed to be all about conformity to outward ritual. Nevertheless, it gave me a bible literacy of sorts, even if it was a parody of the New Testament, and it was during a Sunday Communion service that, whilst reciting the Creed, I truly believed for the first time and became a truly committed Christian. From that point on, just shy of my 18th birthday, I have experienced Christianity as part of three Charismatic churches, one in Kent, then Exeter, and for the past 36 years, in Bristol.

But I have left my father’s house. The literal geographical move is part of that process but the main action has been going on privately in what the bible calls the ‘inner man’.

Terah, Abraham’s father, fell short of the word to his son and settled in Haran. In a similar way, the temptation confronting what were the radical pioneering charismatic apostolic churches that have sprung up all over the UK in the past 75 years is whether to settle or push on to the Promised Land.

Theologically, there are two battles.

·      The first is a lack of conformity to the word, the word as summed up in Rom 6v6, Gal 2v20, and Col 3v3

·      The second is conformity to the world and permitting in church, those things proscribed as ‘abominations’ in the eyes of God

Culturally, there are signs that what was a movement founded on the baptism in the Holy Spirit and the power of the Spirit, is relying on well-rehearsed, professionally produced worship that all-but prevents any use of the gifts of Spirit as stipulated in scripture. Most churches are led by one leader, not overseen by an eldership; the New Testament norm being plurality of leadership. Spontaneity and the leading of the Spirit has been discarded in favour of organisation. Churches are strangled in red-tape, policies, rotas, and are financially burdened employing staff to keep the whole show on the road. Exhaustion is commonplace. Spiritual aridity is a sign that all’s not well.

The whole edifice is heading for a mid-life crisis and may finish in an end-of-life hospice on life support…unless it wakes up, repents, and walks free of the slavery it has formed around itself, like Gulliver, however unintentionally.

When Nicodemus came to Jesus at night, Jesus expressed surprise, (perhaps tongue in cheek?) that Nicodemus ‘a teacher of Israel’ didn’t know what Jesus was talking about he spoke about being born again by the Spirit as a prerequisite of seeing the kingdom of God. What is less well taught is what Jesus said next:

‘The wind blows where it will…so is everyone born of the Spirit’ John 3v8

There is a liberty here that is immediately under threat if we ‘settle’ and fall asleep.

In the Old Testament, the men were required by the law of Moses to attend three annual feasts: Passover, Pentecost, and Tabernacles.

My car, 2009 Vauxhall Astra is undergoing its annual MOT and service. The three feasts were designed very much like an MOT and service, to keep Israel spiritually healthy, and yet they were a prophetic signpost to the fulfilment in Christ, in the New Testament. The letter to Hebrews makes it plain that the Old Testament Temple worship was a ‘shadow’ of the reality of the new covenant/New Testament reality that should be our church reality.

Passover – Christ, the Lamb of God sacrificed for us, not to redeem us from slavery in Egypt but to set us free from slavery to sin, enslaved as we were in Adam to the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. We have been delivered from Adam, we were included in Christ’s death ‘we were crucified with Christ’ Gal 2v20 and placed in Christ so we partake of the tree of life ‘the life we now live in the flesh we live by the faith of the Son of God’ Gal 2v20

Pentecost – Jesus told the apostles and those with them to wait in Jerusalem until the Holy Spirit was poured out in power…this is the new normal, and when these ‘wind-blown’ born-again believers meet to worship, there is no power on Earth that can imitate the liberty of the Spirit, or should

Tabernacles – Jews today celebrate Tabernacles meeting under rooves of overlapping branches from four types of woods which are open to the sky. It is to remind the Jews of their voyage through the desert to the Promised Land. For us, in Christ, we are being led by the Spirit…together…and our rooves should be open to the heaven so that as we gather ‘unto Him’ His glory can fill the church, the new normal for church. It is a collective body of Christ experience. Even though each believer is blown by the Spirit, these gatherings are more like murmurations of starlings or the flight of wild geese where one after the other are leading the direction, than a predictable pre-determined experience. As Paul prayed, ‘Unto Him, glory in the church through Christ Jesus throughout all ages’ Eph 3v21

It may be an oversimplification to state that evangelical churches restrict their theology to Passover, that Charismatic churches add Pentecost, and that Tabernacles lies ahead of us, but what is true is that if Israel relied on all three feasts we need to press into all three in their New Testament fulfilment…and not settle for one or two out of three.

Let us, me included, hand ourselves over to God for an MOT and service. Let Him run Passover, Pentecost, and Tabernacles through us, before we set off on wherever the wind may blow you next, as you leave your father’s house. It’s settling, like Terah, or pushing on and being ‘of the faith of Abraham’.

What has moving to Winscombe to do with Abraham? It is a visual aid.

Pilgrimage to Fratton Park, Portsmouth 8th/9th March 2025

PORTSMOUTH FC v LEEDS Utd

The tug of war between romance and the rational was at play.

First, Paul J, a Leeds United supporter, dreaming of a return to the top-flight and I, a partisan Pompey supporter nervously hoping that the recent return to form will relegate relegation fears this season to the bin.

It was a Sunday fixture, in the sun, at that old stadium that is Fratton Park, now surrounded by a soulless shopping precinct and rows of Victorian terraces that have withstood promotions and demotions, WWII bombs, solvency and insolvency, Harry Redknapp, high hopes and descents into despair.

Such was the romance that caught hold of two balding and greying fellas, one from Whitstable the other from Bristol, to make their journeys to Portsmouth, the day before the match.

Rationality was called for: a car journey for me via Chievely Service station in my faithful 2009 Astra, and trains, first to Victoria then a second down to the South Coast, for Paul.

Plans are one thing.

My story: Friday afternoon and the car won’t start. Jump leads cure the problem, but this is the third time in two weeks I have had to resort to jump leads. A photo sent to Paul from Halfords carpark, jump leads from a new battery to the dud-battery told its own story.

Saturday: Travelling and…

All well. Saturday morning rolled around. Just enough time to do a Severn Beach Parkrun in glorious sunshine before returning home, shower, last minute packing and off, various podcasts and music booming from the speakers, and, sunglasses on, travelling East along the M4.

Paul: A text from Paul informed me that he had successfully boarded the train from Whitstable and then another from Victoria. I can’t remember which part of the journey brought Paul together with four loud ladies, party animals, great friends, dressed similarly, discussion at top volume, and, amongst other topics, their dilation statistics in glorious detail whilst giving birth. Paul kept his head buried in his book.

Me: SatNav took me to a draughty road in between a bunch of modern high-rise buildings, but no sign of the Ibis hotel destination. Pulling over on a double-yellow, I resort to Google and hit directions and follow the voice to Reception…but it turns out to be the sister hotel. Ten minutes later I pull into the correct carpark and impersonate Paul J at reception, get the keys.

Paul: Texts John to say he’s arrived at Portsmouth and Southsea station, can see a Barclay’s Bank but that Google map blue dots seem to be a moving target and, if he’s not lost, he’s ‘temporarily disoriented’. I think I mentioned Winston Churchill to be helpful. Not entirely disconnected with reality as Ibis sits very close to Churchill Way. It seems to help, and Paul arrives less than ten minutes later.

The room: Ah! The on-line booking gave the option for twin beds. That instruction seemed to have been ignored and a well-made up double sat there looking at us. I’ve only shared a bed with one man (!) and he was a prisoner on the run (a story for another time). Hastily, we made our way to reception where polite complaints were made and some haggling over the price for a second room ensued…with success.

Saturday Evening: The weather could not have been better; full sun and still. It wasn’t long before we were sat behind two plates of food and drink at a dockside pub after which we were inexorably drawn to the Spinnaker tower, impressive a rather beautiful addition to the Portsmouth skyline. Conversation varied from Trump to theology, Fratton Park to family life, and navigation by the sun and old buildings to neuropsychology.

Sunday: The day of the Match

A full English and coffee, of course. And discussion about how the past and the present are related in our outlook on life. The most important aspect of this rather in-depth discussion over bacon and eggs was how we arrived at our commitments to Portsmouth FC for me, and Leeds Utd for Paul. Anyone wishing to carry out a full psychological profile should be warned: the minds of football supporters are not complex.

And off to the stadium via a coffee in a shopping precinct with the most depressing muzac I’ve heard since working at Herne Bay Tesco’s in 1975. It was a joy to leave and make our way to the ground. Early attempts to match the ticketed North Stand and Block K with the stadium signs (I do hate the non-word ‘signage’) at Fratton Park proved to be impossible, and we resorted to a human for directions.

Two seats in the corner wedge between the Away End with very vocal Leeds Untd supporters and some unsavoury Portsmouth ‘fans’ whose only enjoyment during the two hours of the match, was to yell insults at the Leeds Utd fans, practice crude hand gestures and the like. Why is probably not even worth asking. Each to their own…but it was as entertaining as unpleasant. Hardly cricket ‘ol bean! Or rugger, what?

Meanwhile, without dragging out a match report, the spectacle was impressive. Leeds, looking assured on the ball as the stylish leaders of the Championship that they are, were pitched against an aggressive Pompey team living off scraps and winning second balls. 0-0 at half time.

Portsmouth, after the resumption, piled pressure down the left wing ‘til worn defences yielded and the Leeds net bulged with the only goal of the match.

Thirty nervous minutes later, after terrible Leeds attacks, corners and free kicks that hit the bar, eluded the posts, but not the goalkeeper, and victory was ‘ours’, by which, I don’t mean Paul’s, but Pompey and her crazy fans.

Happy and heavy hearts poured out of the stadium for the journey home.

Are You a Filer or a Piler…or a Lurcher?

March 7th More Than Writer’s blog

Filer or Piler...or Lurcher?

I apologise. This is rather hurried. Something in my early morning foggy brain told me to look at the MTW blog, read, and write comments…and then…’O No! It’s the 6th of the Month and I’m ‘on’ tomorrow! Yikes!’

How has this happened?

In my former life as a Chemistry teacher, I attended umpteen Insets, training sessions and professional development courses. Of the umpteen I suffered; I have fond memories of…erm…two. One dealt with the Men from Mars, Women from Venus thing and was surprisingly helpful to such a dense, analytical type like I, and the other was entitled ‘Filer or Piler?’

As with all categories, I seem to lurch from one extreme to the other, so maybe ‘lurcher’ should be added. I do love a tidy desk, sock drawer, feng shui arrangement of cups in a cupboard etc, but I find I can’t sustain this organised approach to living for more than, I dunno, a few days?

And now I am on a strict regime: no bread, no booze for 10 weeks whilst I haul my 67-year-old body towards running the Bristol 10K with a much younger daughter who will bounce round whilst I…lurch.

What has this got to do with the MTW blog, you ask?

Simply this; I have prided myself on writing 7th of the month blogs well in advance, leaving enough time to fuss over the uploaded draft before the predetermined 6am or 7am launch. It seems that lurching has come to infect even this relatively well-organised portion of my existence.

Some excuses: Apart from the self-imposed strictures in the run up to the 10K, I’m negotiating a house move AND I’m trying to write a novel, for goodness’s sake!

Worry not, I will break it to haul out someone’s donkey stuck in a Sabbath ditch

The truth is that I’ve added a ‘1 hour a day minimum’ novel writing rule to my Pharisaical ‘no bread no booze’ discipline. Thus far I have slipped twice in a week. Nevertheless, I feel the wind is with me thanks to having that ‘1 hour a day minimum’ rule, lodged somewhere in my lurch-like interior, calling me onwards. It seems to be helping.

Back to the diet. Worry not, I will break it to haul out someone’s donkey stuck in a Sabbath ditch (or at a forthcoming writers’ gathering in April) and I will break the 1-hour-a-day rule in the opposite direction and indulge in a few binge-writing days where the pen virtually sings as it flies across the paper as fast as those creative thoughts arrive from Who knows where? Well one can hope.

So, in short, to summarise…are you a filer or a piler, or, like me, a lurcher?

And how does this affect your writing? Your desk?

Dad-daughter 10K challenge 2024-2025…Post VII 26.02.25 79 Days until Bristol 10K, 11th May, 2025

Progress of sorts.

Since the last update, I decided to follow my sporting hero’s strategy and abscond to a faraway Training Camp to put in some serious prep.

Ali’s training camp in Deer Lake had some features absent from my lowly cottage in Cornwall: Ali had numerous personal trainers, an entourage of friends and well-wishers plus media attention…whereas my version is splendid for isolation. Good for writers.

The weather forecast for today at Deer Lake is, perhaps surprisingly, very similar to many of my days in deepest Cornwall: overcast, 9oC but with a westerly breeze, feels like 3oC. Ali (just like me…ahem!) wasn’t put off by wintry conditions.

Ali’s training camp in Deer Lake had some features absent from my lowly cottage in Cornwall

Cornwall weather: Day one and two bathed in glorious sunshine. Days three to seven were bitterly cold, submerged in freezing fog, and high winds. Suffice to say more attention was paid to dialling up the heating towards the end of the week and writing than running.

When the weather permitted, I ran my first 10K since taking on this challenge and found a fantastic running track in Par, near St Austell to slog round 12.5 laps ie 5K.

Are times relevant?

There is a certain joy attached to running. Honestly.

Level One is simply finishing! Keeping going to the finish line whatever the time, brings an intoxicating sense of achievement however grim the ordeal may have been.

Level Two is achieving a good time in the conditions – weather, terrain, route, other runners. It doesn’t have to be a PB. But a PB is Level 2.5.

Level Three joy is, for me, a rare feeling. It’s when you ‘feel’ you are ‘running’ not plodding. More akin to flying. It’s more than jogging or straining to work hard at each stride. You feel light and strong as if you could carry on at speed all day. I rarely – very rarely – experience Level 3. And didn’t on either occasion in Cornwall!

Pentewan Trail 10K time: 61:00  i.e. 6.08 min/km

Par Track 5K time: 28:35 i.e. 5:40 min/km

For the past week or so, Dad and daughter have had some interruptions. For me it was partly the inhospitable weather in Cornwall, then distractions back home and, for Rachel, an inopportune encounter with a virus. So we’re both on yet another recovery road.

A couple of days ago I puffed round local roads for not quite a 5K and yesterday did a run-walk 10K across the Severn Bridge on a chilly but gloriously sunny morning…and stopped everysooften to take some photos.

Reflections.

Personally, Level 1 joy was in abundance managing not to stop on the 10K Pentewan trail. The final 2K were tough, legs felt like stilts. But it’s a start. Hopefully, I’ll do one 10K per week from this point on.

For some, pounding out laps on a running track is about as exciting as sorting out a sock drawer, but I hadn’t run on a track since…erm…1975… fifty years ago! I paid a mere £5.00 online and had the beautiful red track all to myself. Temp 5oC, felt like -2oC, and a 21km/hr easterly may have put off more sensible athletes.

Looking ahead

77 days to go to the Bristol 10K. My hopes are (i) to enjoy the day, the crowds, and complete the course, get home, sink into a hot bath, and enjoy a cool beer to celebrate (ii) to beat my age ie sub-67 mins. (iii) but my true ambition is to run sub-60. I’m hoping Rachel might be there at the finish line to cheer her ‘ol man across the line!

Before that, lies 10 weeks of training after this weekend. It’s a no bread, no alcohol diet for me. This is getting serious. I may have to practice my frown, get in touch with my American side, and say ugly things like ‘You’ve got this’ or ‘You’re the man’, or ‘You can do this’ and put my fist over my heart & growl into the mirror?

Hmm…maybe not. No, definitely not.

I’ll let Ali have the last word:

“Don't count the days; make the days count.”

Bolt Hole for Writers – an ideal Writer’s Retreat?

Although, as writers we could be classed as a Collective, I imagine what works as a writer’s retreat for one would fail miserably for another. Utopia is not universal.

Facebook, the blogosphere, and various writerly magazines, are replete with enticing offers of Writer’s Retreats in mountainous areas, wilderness zones far away from traffic, or impossibly beautiful houses overlooking ocean waves with cliff walks thrown in. I’m always tempted.

As yet, the cost has been a large factor in deciding not to succumb…but I might in the future.

So, if one doesn’t attend an organised Writer’s Retreat but is fed up with looking at the same four walls at home, what does one do?

Well, this one has done the following over the past few years:

1 x Hilfield Friary, Dorset
2 x Air BnBs in UK
2 x Air BnB abroad: one in Crete and one in Portugal
1x Sykes Cottages
Bristol Central Library
Various Coffee#1s and other brands

I’ve just returned from a week in Penwithick, Cornwall, holed up in a delightful cottage, and want to share some of the features that I look for as clues that might make discovering that sweet spot of creativity all the more likely.

In order, I look for:

1. A good table and chair close to a window…by far and above the most important and not that easy to find!
2. WiFi
3. Remote…I can work in a city/town/busy coffee shop setting…but, if I’m swapping my four walls, I’d prefer to look out on a garden, a beach, a mountain, or a lake.
4. Heating – joy for me is a log burner
5. Furniture and general décor…I know it when I see it. A comfortable sofa is a must
6. Kitchen – a fridge. Got to chill the white somewhere
7. Free parking by the cottage is preferable

In terms of concentration, I’m 10x better in the morning. The afternoon often is a mush, and I revive later in the evening. If I do any exercise, it’ll usually be a run early in the morning, back for a shower, breakfast, then down to it by 9 if possible. Maybe an afternoon walk/hike.

But writing, I find, will not be confined to a well-organised routine; inspiration is as unpredictable as catching trout.

A few days into this latest retreat, conditions 1-7 all met, and inspiration itself decided to evaporate. Grumpily I gave up slogging a dead horse and drove to Mevagissey for a bracing walk round the harbour, along the Coastal path, and to mouche around the town’s quaint alleyways and shops. Foolishly I donned a thin jacket, and, despite wrapping my neck in a thick scarf, the bitter cold quickly penetrated my bones, and I was forced to retreat to a warm coffee shop overlooking the harbour.

I ordered my standard flat white and a slice of sommit and sat down only to find there was no WiFi available. Grumpier now. But I’d brought an old, battered exercise pad and a pen, not sure why, dug it out, and sat there gazing stupidly at the harbour.

At that point of uselessness and redundancy, inspiration struck, and a poem began to form, or rather, I began to see the harbour at low tide as a metaphor and words began to wrap themselves around the metaphor.

Would that have happened if I had stayed at home in Bristol? No. Or would it have occurred if I’d switched on the tv and stayed in the cottage to watch another episode of For All Mankind? No. But did I need to be reduced to nothing, with no WiFi in a coffee shop? That’s a question that will keep spiritual gurus and philosophers in business all day long.

The Universe, and life in it, does seem to run best on a diet of enriched paradoxes.

Be still and know that I am God – is this the necessary prelude for whatever comes next? Psalm 23 carries the same thought, ‘The Lord is My shepherd, I’ll not want. He makes me lie down…’ everything else in that well-known Psalm follows on, but first, inaction is called for: ‘lie down’.

This is not easy for us Westerners caught up in our futile attempts at meritocracy and external achievement, rather than switching to the better way: grace.

At that point of uselessness and redundancy…a poem began to form

So, there it is. My recipe for a writer’s getaway. But even the recipe is subject to the whims of the human condition and the starting point of stillness whether achieved through personality, prayer, meditation, or, as in my case, failure.

Dad-daughter 10K challenge 2024-2025…Post VI 05.02.25 97 Days until the Bristol 10K, 11th May, 2025

In not so many years gone by, the pre-weekend Premiership or European action was often preceded by press releases and short interviews with Sir Alec Ferguson playing mind games with the opposition.

Referring to Inzhagi before United played AC Milan, Fergurson said: ‘That lad must have been born offside’

My suspicion is that Rachel has been studying Fergurson. To quote: ‘Just got in from a 10K…not quite hit my PB but still under 55 minutes’

This was less than 20 minutes after I reported 27:50 for the Severn Bridge Parkrun last Saturday and feeling, for the first time in ages, that I was actually ‘running’ rather than telling my legs to keep moving.

Since Saturday though I have been conscious that the Bristol 10K is less than 100 days away and the last time I completed a 10K is tucked away in the mists of time. The weather, recently, has been relatively benign: dry, cold, still mornings. Ideal for me. So, I’m inserting this blog today as I believe that R maybe, if she reads it, beginning to feel the pressure of her, now, 67-year-old Pa’s determination to prepare well, and his commitment to the challenge by stepping up from 5 to 10K, albeit in chunks.

Run 1: Severn Bridge, Monday, 5 miles (6.3K), 6:30 min/km pace

Run 2: Severn Bridge, Wednesday, 8.77K, 6.08 min/km pace

At this rate of improvement, I will break the European Record by the end of the month and the world record by the end of April…this, of course, would be classed as ‘rude’, so I’m (i) keeping quiet and (ii) will artificially pace my improvements otherwise R may feel like throwing in the towel (NOT that this is a competition…as I have previously emphasized).

The inspiration for my modest improvement in distance and time has been mostly the weather, but I also want to give a shout-out to Frank Skinner’s Poetry Podcast which does a great deal of vital distraction work so I am less and less conscious of running and running out of breath as his melodious tone unveils one poet after another.

Other podcasts as well, but Frank Skinner’s has been my podcast of choice New Year.

LOOKING AHEAD: Rachel has been recording her own Believing In podcast…due to hit the airwaves…watch this space …meanwhile, have a listen to previous episodes Believing In

Dad-daughter 10K challenge 2024-2025…Post Five 21.01.25 Hot on the heels

Less than a week after comparing our slightly different approaches to winter-training, I have a significant development to report.

First, I am cock-a-hoop. Having almost convinced myself that further training was resulting in a downturn of results and that running in the winter was overrated, I set out again to attempt a Saturday morning 5K Parkrun up and down the Severn Bridge.

Result: 28:32 whereas my previous 5K had been in excess of 30 mins.

Not wishing to shock Rachel to the core, I held off telling her for…Ooo…at least twenty minutes.

Not long afterward I heard a WhatsApp bleep and prepared myself to be understanding if Rachel’s thinly veiled congratulations sounded as if lasting psychological damage had occurred and she was now regretting lazing by the pool in Porto.

Here’s the message: Followed by two texts…

What?!!

The two texts: “NEW PB” and “54:13”

In summary: Rachel ran twice the distance and 17 secs per km faster than her old man whilst I was waiting, politely, to share my good news.

Suffice to say that it is Rachel who is cock-a-hoop. I’m off to the gym. This is getting serious – not that we are in competition, I should add. Oh no.