I enjoyed seeing the ruins of Old Gorhambury House (http://www.english-heritage.org.uk/daysout/properties/old-gorhambury-house/) in the snow on Sunday.
I was (as usual) thrilled to see the red kite swooping low over the Hemel Hempstead road and was pleasantly surprised by the wheatears I saw in the hedgerows, that’s not a normal St Alban’s bird watching highlight for me.
I was even fairly pleased to find out that the Donna Summer song “On the Radio” is actually a happy song of lost love re-found thanks to the titular entertainment device and not a song of publicly aired despair. Amazing what you learn by listening more closely to the lyrics on my generic mp3 playing device in order to try and block out the pain.
I could definitely have done without the twenty miles slog through circling snow and freezing winds that caused it in the first place.
I hate long training runs. It is not the actual physical horror of them, although that is bad enough. It is a combination of the physical effort and the psychological blow of knowing you have so far still to go – with no one to cheer you on or share the load with.
Until I started this marathon training programme I think I had not fully understood what people meant when they talked about the loneliness of the long distance runner. In April, during the London Marathon itself the physical challenge will be much the same but there will be thousands of other people going through the same thing at the same time. Many of them will be worse off than I will be.
There will be people lining the streets shouting my name (as they are now handily printed on the number – probably more to help stop people running under another person’s number really but spectators do read them and call out which is rather sweet). There will be nice people to hand out drinks and energy gels. At the end, there will be medals and stuff and cheering and a feeling of achievement.
On Sunday however, I just felt rubbish as I jogged along painfully those last five miles way. In the end I was just relieved to get home without an apparent injury and felt very little in the way of achievement.
All I could think of is that I have to do that again next week, except adding a bit more, and trying to do it a bit quicker.
I wouldn’t be so bad if people walking the streets of St Albans knew you were on a big boring run. Instead they just see you puffing along and think you’ve just come around the corner and should be heading straight for casualty looking like that.
I’m so glad I don’t have to do this for a living or regularly train for this distance. There is definitely some kind of sport mentality that comes with the very strongest proponents of some sports. Imagination seems to be a drawback to effective training, or at least what would be good is to be able to switch it off so you don’t imagine the rest of your route stretching endlessly out before you.
I remember friends at school on the rugby field who seemed to be able to switch off the higher centres of their brains and not worry about the pain as they charged headlong into a ruck or maul. By the time I had puffed up to the action – my teenage condition being heavily overweight and under exercised – all my brain was doing was to scream at the rest of me “keep away, you’ll get hurt!”
You can probably guess I wasn’t really very good at rugby. It was fun until I was thirteen as I grew early and so towered over most of my peers allowing me to literally trundle over them on the field. Unfortunately a couple of years later and they caught up with me. It all became a little too serious at that point. I once made it to the heights of reserve for the second team (they were desperate). Thank goodness I never got on the field, they would have eaten me alive (this being against Ampleforth College, possible literally).
So the serious point for me now is that with the running I am worried me that I have the same reluctance to push myself to the limit. It is too easy for me to run within my ability and that is never quite satisfying. I keep doing though because in this I’m a coward.
I’m going to have to tackle that in the next month if I want to make a good show on April 21st.

If you want to encourage me:
http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/GrahamWilson

Senodo wiped the bar once more and admired the grain of the wood.
He had made the bar and all the rest of the furniture here with his own hands. It was a something he still wished he was using day in day out. Helping run the bar was fun at times, but lacked the creative satisfaction of seeing raw wood transformed into something useful and beautiful.
It was a legacy of a former and a simpler life that he missed badly. Senodo sighed. Just as he still missed Messalina. No amount of time could heal that wound.
‘You look sad,’ Vita said as she placed a tray on the counter. Both the jug and serving dish were empty
’We’ve an order for same again – for the two poets over there – although how they can afford it is beyond me.’
Senodo picked up the jug and filled it from the amphora he had just opened. He took a swig from the jug just to check it was still barely acceptable and put it back down. It was a bit rough but the boys drinking it had no idea what to look for and probably didn’t care providing it got them drunk.
‘They’re just kids from rich families,’ Senodo looked across at the giggling louts with something that might have approached sympathy,’ they’re not even real Romans, just locals that have embraced the life,’ he handed the tray over,’ Parents probably own some villa out there with a few head of cattle or sheep; they’ve sent their kids here to get them out of their hair and learn the “Roman Way”. So they come here and drink, and carouse and supposedly compose poetry.’
‘Sounds alright to me,’ said Vita, ‘at least better than being a slave.’
‘I call it mind numbing boredom. Why do you think they come here first thing in the morning and stay for several jugs? They’ve nothing else to do. They are not really enjoying themselves, they are just wasting time. They should learn a trade really, like I did.’
Vita shrugged. The poet’s life still sounded a good deal to her.
‘We’re out of sausages by the way, until Exuperatus gets back from the market,’ Senodo warned.
The girl nodded and took the wine over to the poets.
On the way back they slapped her bottom playfully. Senodo grimaced at the sight.
‘Would you like me to throw them out?’ he asked Vita.
‘No, it is fine, I’ve had worse. I’m just amused that they presumably think I’m a boy. They must be more than just friends, those two.’
Senodo laughed.
‘Well spotted.’
‘Why did you come to Britannia? You’re from Gaul, aren’t you?’
Senodo’s smile faded.
‘You ask a lot of questions, Vita… Vitus – I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Let’s just say you’re not the only person who is running away from things.’
Vita nodded and put her small hand on the big man’s ruddy fist and patted it gently. She said nothing though. She went back to serving.
The next time the poets made a pass at the “serving boy” Senodo threw them out.
‘They act like they’re Romans,’ he explained to her, ’and that they have become civilised and educated. But we’re still the same savages just under the veneer.’
Senodo patted her on the head affectionately, but his face was grim.
‘You see, it just takes them to get drunk or angry and all the lust and violence comes out. The Empire is fragile façade, girl. We might all be wearing nice tunics and togas now but we’re still only a moment away from picking up our swords again.’
Vita looked at the look in Senodo’s eyes and shivered.
‘Do you have a sword?’
‘I did once. I threw it away though,’ Senodo said, his face set and unreadable,’ too many bad memories.’

I spent a substantial part of last Friday attached to a machine as it whirred and vibrated angrily at me. Out of my own choice I have to say. I have become to be a platelet donor and I now have an awful lot more sympathy for those that have to go through dialysis as it is much the same type of machine.
Platelets are what your blood needs to clot, and there are plenty of people that low platelet counts due to inherent or developed conditions. They are in serious danger from excessive bleeding. You can get platelets from donated blood but it is more efficient to take them directly from a donor. I was told that another key reason for taking them directly is so the eventual recipient is exposed to fluid from one other individual rather than several, as in the case of platelets from donated blood.
I’ve given blood since university and kept it up because I found out that my blood – I’m a universal donor, O Negative – tended to go for emergency cases and babies. So I was unsure about giving that up when they asked me to be tested to see if I was suitable. You cannot do both blood donation and platelets. Well, I was tested. Apparently my platelet level is high enough and I have “adequate” veins. The last bit might seem odd but you need to have veins that are easy to find and big enough to allow the machine to suck blood out and put most of it back in on a cycle.
So I braved Luton to go and be attached to a machine for an hour and a half. The needle goes in and the blood goes out and is centrifuged to remove the platelets that collect in a bag. The rest of your blood is mixed with an anticoagulant and pumped back in. And repeat. If the pressure goes too low the machine buzzes angrily at you to get pumping with whatever soft item you have in your hand to get the pressure back up.
The machine itself is delightfully macabre. It seems to have more tubes and holding areas for liquid than what seems absolutely necessary, with blood, clear and yellow liquids flowing through them. For the record a bag of platelets looks a little like a bag of thick orange squash.
Together with the angry buzzing and flashy lights it has a bit of a nightmare quality and I did feel a little as though I was in a late 1970s science fiction movie, something like Demon Seed or Phase IV.
It was not painful – as such – although moving my arm afterwards was excruciating. Having held it still for so long it was determined to protest violently.
So why bother? I mean it hurt and it took hours out of my day.
Well, first the tea was good and the nurses talk to you all the time to stop you getting bored, and I came away with a bag containing sandwiches, two Jacobs Club biscuits and some prawn cocktail crisps.
More seriously, I have been trying to understand if I do this out of duty (read: guilt) or because I actually want to. I think it is a bit of both, but the driving principle for me is this. In the end the cost to me is tiny. A little bit of time and discomfort but not even the light headedness you sometimes get with blood donation. The people who will get the platelets need them to stay alive. I find it difficult to say no to that equation, especially as it seems that in this case I am in a minority in being able to give at all.
I personally see it as my responsibility to make use of this gift, as with any other I might possess (the others are well hidden by the way, but I keep looking). So if my contributions are up to scratch, then I’ll continue to submit to the needle.

‘There are ways of learning that too,’ commented Exuperatus,’ and quite a lot of boys could do with lessons come to think of it considering the mess they make. But let’s restrict ourselves to one thing at a time, shall we?’
The small man pointed to the cellar.
‘Girl, get down there now. I’ll be with you in moment. You,’ he pointed at Calgacus,’ go buy a boy’s tunic… come to think of it, make that two tunics and a pair of sandals. Simple, hard wearing stuff, cheap as possible.’
Calgacus nodded and then he frowned.
‘Someone might think it odd if I am buying children’s clothes, since they all know I am unmarried.’
Exuperatus cast his eyes to the ceiling as if to berate the Gods.
‘Oh for goodness sake,’ he said, grabbing Calgacus by the shoulders and pushing him towards the door,’ make something up, I always find imaginary nieces and nephews make great excuses. Now go.’
‘And what should I do?’ Senodo asked.
‘Oh – let’s see. How about minding the bar, serving drinks etc? We are still a business, even if it is starting to feel like an orphanage.’
Exuperatus picked up a large knife and turned to go down into the cellar. He called back over his shoulder as he descended.
‘I saw that look, Calgacus. I’m not going to slit her pretty little throat. It is not my style.’
‘He would probably poison her,’ added Senodo helpfully.
Down in the cellar, Exuperatus lit several candles to give himself light to work with.
‘Sit on the stool girl. I need to cut your hair.’
Vita sat on the stool, shaking slightly as the strong thin fingers took hold of a length of blonde tress. She felt the cold edge of the knife against the side of her head.
Then with a swift jerk of the blade a handful of hair fell to the ground. Vita began to cry.
‘You like your hair don’t you?’ Exuperatus said in a quiet voice. The girl nodded, sobbing, as the man continued to cut it away in large handfuls.
‘It is very pretty hair. I’m sorry we have to do this, but it will grow back, prettier than ever, when things have quieted down and we can end the act. You just have to be patient.’
Vita stopped crying. She had not expected sympathy.
‘Do you hate me?’ She asked.
‘Not at all,’ said Exuperatus,’ but you are just a complication in my life I could do without.’
He paused in his cutting and stood back.
‘I’m making a good job of this, you know. It has been a while too.’
‘You have cut hair before?’
‘I’ve done a lot of things, girl, most of which I didn’t want to do.’
Exuperatus put down the knife and knelt down so he was at her level.
‘Let me show you something Vita.’
Exuperatus pulled up his sleeve to reveal a large scar. Vita could make out a letter and a number.
‘My master had this quaint idea of marking his property,’ Exuperatus paused, ’do you now understand a little better my attitude towards you, little Stolen Goods?’
Vita nodded.
‘Excellent. Then we’ll get on famously,’ he got up, ‘you’ll have to be “Boy” or “Vitus” by the way. Get used to answering to those.’
‘Did you poison the man who branded you?’ Vita asked cautiously.
Exuperatus stood up so his face was hidden in the shadows. He turned and climbed out of the cellar.
‘I’ll send Senodo down with some water for you to wash and your new clothes. We’ll burn the rest.’
‘I understand.’
A little later, a boy emerged from the cellar.
Almost immediately he was called over to a table to serve. Laughing, one of the men shouted over  as the boy returned to the bar with the order.
‘That’s a pretty boy you have there, Exuperatus! There’s some I know who that would pay a lot for his services, if you take my meaning.’
Exuperatus looked straight into Vita’s intense blue eyes.
‘He is not for sale,’ said Exuperatus calmly,’ for any price. Would you like some sausages instead?’

This week while continuing to get my marathon training schedule back on track I’ve been fighting the urge to be intolerant.
Particularly on the roads where my normal manners seem to disintegrate into shouting “you muppet!” at people when they act like total idiots.
Of course… I’m totally oblivious to my own faults, but that’s the marvellous level of hypocrisy that we all seem to possess. (I just though I’d get that issue out of the way before I enter into a full on rant.)
There are some things on the roads that do worry me a little more than people being in the wrong lane or trying to drive up my exhaust pipe.
Zebra crossings for instance… There seems to be some collective amnesia related to that part of the Highway Code which is sweeping Hertfordshire at the moment. Maybe something has changed when I wasn’t looking but drivers are supposed to stop and let pedestrians cross.
Instead I’ve seen and – on training runs even when I have stopped patiently – been on the receiving end of rather too many near misses recently and while pedestrians can make it difficult by dithering at the side of the road, a lot of people seem afflicted by what I’m going to call fixed stare syndrome.
In the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy the late Douglas Adams introduces, among many other wonderful things, the Joo Janta 200 Super-Chromatic Peril Sensitive Sunglasses. These turn opaque when danger approaches so that you don’t get stressed by your impending doom and therefore develop a relaxed attitude to danger.
Something similar seems to happen to a lot of drivers approaching crossings, or coming up to roundabouts.
The reasoning seems to go like this: If I don’t see the pedestrian or the car that actually has right of way coming on the roundabout, then they don’t exist.
So, to maintain this blissful sense of ignorance I will stare straight out the front of my car as though locked in some kind of neck brace. I’m sure one or two probably are so afflicted, and I hope they get well soon. But on no account must I look left or right, or in my mirrors.
I suspect the majority just have a belief that the (non-existent of course, as we have established due to some kind of Uncertainty Principle) car or pedestrian will actually manage the situation for them allowing Mr or Miss Fixed Stare to blithely float on towards their destination.
It’s utterly terrifying.
I’ve even seen a lady driver nearly hit a police car (I mean a proper police car all bright colours with “POLICE” emblazoned on it) going onto a mini roundabout because she just wasn’t looking; thankfully the police booked her for it.
Maybe she’ll learn from it now before she kills someone.
It is part of a sad trend in that people are driving and walking around with their eyes firmly shut. This is a shame. There are so many wonderful things to see if you just look beyond some fixed point a few feet in front of you.
In older cities at least, looking up is a revelation, seeing past the bright high street facia and signs to see the architecture and features that are often above and that someone took masses of care and attention with.
The natural world is full of interest, again even in towns. My wife and I spotted a kingfisher in our local park recently and stood and watched it in the act of successfully fishing for a magical fifteen minutes, while any number of people walked past, oblivious of the PWM going on for free in front of them.
I suppose they could always go and watch something on Youtube rather than see it unfold uniquely in front of them.
I guess you could say “good for you, shame for them”, but on this at least I am not so selfish. I want to share the experience.
Please, open your eyes next time. You – and the small child on that Zebra crossing – will really appreciate it.
And I’ll try really hard to practice what I preach.

We were in the Sherwood Forest area – in a Cabin in the Woods, no less, cure suspenseful music – and I was struck by several things. One was a Priceless Wildlife Moment (PWM) – a male skylark sitting on a hedge singing his testosterone pumped little heart out in an achingly beautiful way. I’ve never seen one except as a speck high in the sky – trying to distract me in the mistaken belief I was an egg predator – so to have one at arm’s length was a real treat.

Secondly, I have never seen so many places advertising archery. Obvious I know, but it seems that if you are a tourist to Robin Hood country you have get your longbow out and have a go.

The main reason for being there was to spend part of Saturday night running through Sherwood Forest in tights. I even enjoyed parts of it. Thankfully these were running tights although it is true I was wearing a fancy dress knight’s surcoat and surrounded by a plethora of men and women in Lincoln green. I have previously done one of these obstacle strewn night runs at Hambleton near Henley and found it tiring but entertaining in an adventurous sort of way. Probably takes me back at heart to live role-playing back at University on Shotover Common near Oxford, dressing up, running through woods being ridiculous and getting back lacerated by trees and tumbles. Yes, much the same. However, thankfully this event was all over by eight rather than starting at two AM and finishing just as things were starting to get light.

But it did cause me to learn a few things about my fellow man (and woman).

1. In adversity, up to a point at least, we suddenly start to work together and look after each other. I’ve done a lot of races but in the dark and the mud you start helping complete strangers over obstacles, checking they are OK (in a way most people would never do on a city street) and trusting those strangers to lead you through the dark. Although, of course, afterwards no one will admit to anything.
2. Having said all that in praise of my fellow (wo)man there are always ones that don’t play the game. In the case of Saturday, one idiot that insisted on pushing past everyone while we going through a thicket which clearly had to be done single file. Funnily enough this bloke had “Peanut” on the back of his shirt, which I assume was a reference to the size of his brain.
3. If you are going to do a run that all the advertising material tells you – nay, promotes – that you will get muddy and wet, an onsie is probably not the right costume for you. Lounging and student fundraising activities only.
4. Swimming up to your neck in mud -because they force you down into it under a camouflage net – is only fun when you can get straight out of your clothes and into a hot bath. Continuing to have to run just makes it unpleasant and harder to get over or under obstacles as your hands are covered in gunk and your costume has doubled in weight (see onsie comment above).
5. While my marathon training is helping with fitness and strength, I learned I was about as flexible as the logs I was throwing myself over, resulting in several embarrassing and painful thumps as I hit the ground heavily (again, in a very log inspired fashion).
6. Right at the end the organisers had kept the worst until last – a slippery climbing wall with knotted ropes. Having completely failed at the first attempt I had to calm down and reassess strategy. I made it over the second time having changed ropes and realised thanks to the shouted encouragement of the wife and others that the way of climbing these things in counter-intuitive, as you have to lean back away from the top of the wall and haul yourself up kind of reverse abseil. How many times in life do you both (1) have to reassess in the light of failure and try a different approach and (2) the correct approach is not what you think it should be but looks perfectly clear in retrospect? That’s a lot of my life echoed in five grimy and frustrating minutes.