Maybe not that boldly, more ‘sweatily going’ if I’m being honest*. That’s a week I’ve been doing this running about like an idiot malarkey and I have to say I’ve surprised myself.
This isn’t as easy as it sounds. I did try hiding behind the door and waiting for me to walk past so I could jump out and yell, “Boo!” But it never worked – somehow I always seemed to know I was hiding there. Luckily this jumping out trick still works on She Who Must Have Her Heart Checked For Stopping And Starting At Regular Intervals — though for some reason, after the initial bout of screaming has passed, she develops a sudden attack of Tourettes.
Anyway, after a week of running every other day I have turned from couch potato to… a slightly fitter potato. Maybe an armchair potato. Or a divan potato. No longer do I feel like I’ve died and gone to hell after seven minutes, now I can pant and suffer all the way to twenty. Which doesn’t sound like much, but I realised at the end of Saturday’s undignified stagger that I’d actually covered nearly nine miles.
Now I’m sure I don’t do this with the same kind of panache and ease that Mr James does, but at least I’m getting there. One sweaty, cursing step at a time.
The only trouble is that it’s not shifting any of the hibernation insulation I’ve been laying down for the winter. Not a single ounce. Fitter, but just as fat. Which is a pain because HarperCollins have decided that I need a sexy new publicity photograph, and it’s going to be taken next week.
So short of having another bout of sinus surgery, or contracting a particularly nasty strain of food poisoning, it looks like I’m going to be a beardy chubster in the back of the next three books too.
Why do pies have to be so damn tasty?
* Thought I don’t see why I should start now.