I’m impressed by moderation. I appreciate it does not seem the most obvious sentiment to express, but the context is in being able to apply moderation as a way of life. If people possess a skill you do not feel you have there is a tendency towards one of two positions; to hate them for it or to be impressed by it. I find practising moderation difficult, so I am impressed with people who can and do live life with more balance. Usually I am either on or off, happy or sad, full of beans or ready for bed. I do not do inbetween, and as a result live with both the advantages and the drawbacks.

Helpfully for me I have disciplined and controlled people in my life or else I would be all over the place. Personally, I can go from one extreme to another in a matter of minutes. I am not good at hitting the sweet spot in the middle, at least not first time. I usually need at least three attempts to get it right – note, those who know me, have patience, please – probably best epitomised by my driving test experience which was the definition of ‘goldilocks’. First test failed largely on being too hesitant, second one failed on being too aggressive and third one passed as just right. There are other areas of my life that have taken a similar porridge temperature trajectory (although the bears have not come home to catch me, at least not yet). It would be nice to hit the sweet spot first time, but I suppose personally I need the practice.

What can bother me more is getting a handle on my swings of mood, and I suspect those close to me put up a lot with them too. I can get cross very quickly, but calm down just as fast. I also have a good line in panic, although on this one I have worked out that letting a minute or two of ‘oh goodness sake what do I do now?’ is often rewarded by a sustained follow up of cool practical thought and action as to best save the situation or at least initiate a decent attempt at damage limitation. I refer longer term readers to the Mount Fuji experience as a key example of turning something potential disastrous (and, to be honest, dangerous) into something that, as the cliché goes, you end up laughing about. Acting instinctively can be helpful at times, and at least you know what is going on with me, I’m terribly bad at hiding what I am feeling at any one time, unlike some whose inner thoughts and feelings are hidden behind a mask that really, really, should be in use playing high stakes poker, if they were not so disinclined.

Of course, both types work together. I get them to jump off the cliff into the clear, warm water when otherwise they’d probably never go, spending too much time considering whether it was worth it or not. Mind you, they’ve already paused long enough to take the time to (1) check that the water is deep enough for it to be safe and (2) checked that the sharks are not circling waiting for a free meal to drop in on them. A win-win scenario for us both I feel, and yes I feel annoyed with myself for using ‘win-win scenario’ in something not written about my corporate work life. Time to sign off when I’m behind, I feel…

This week’s soundtrack: ‘I Go to Extremes’ by Billy Joel, off the 1989 album ‘Storm Front’ – right back to being 18 and my first year at University.

That is a lie, by the way, from a personal point of view, but seemed an appropriate title this week. Rules are divisive things, even just taken from a personal perspective. In general I am in favour and not a rule breaker by nature, but I do sometimes take the Madness inspired route of bending them if they have the appropriate level of flex (which many do, if you look hard/creatively enough). Some of them are more important than others, and some of them more relevant than others. Unfortunately, many of the rule I come across professionally are largely there because organisations have abrogated responsibility or introduced rules for political (I mean this in the most generic sense) or emotional reasons, often under pressure, and therefore are often poorly thought out (if thought was used at all). Even when they have logical or technical justification, rules need revision and updating, and that process, should it exist at all, almost always lag the changing environment in which those rules are supposed to operate.

Rules are at the top of my mind now after a bit of an encounter while volunteering at the weekend. The house that I am a room guide for was partially closed for an event, which is an unfortunate necessity at times. Most visitors (and us volunteers) take this stoically but there are always a few that feel they are owed more. This time I was approached by a man of a certain age, with wild white hair and a jacket, adopting an appearance I would probably describe as ‘tousled’. After looking meaningfully at my name badge, he fixed me with an icy blue-eyed stare (which I can only assume he though was intimidating based on what came out his mouth) and challenged me as to why I could not at least take his wife around the closed area of the house, you know, no one would know.

I apologised, and told him that was not possible – I was under strict instruction that the area was closed.

‘So you’re doing it by the book,’ he sneered.

I just looked at him.

‘Yes. Apologies.’

At this point he marched off in the huff muttering – in that way that you know they want you to hear –

‘Typical British Civil Servant attitude…’

Which amused me immensely for various reasons.

The sad thing is if he had not tried to intimidate me I might have tried to find a solution for him, although, in this case I was under clear orders.

I’d contrast this to a few years ago, when while on duty I ended up talking to couple in their 90s. they were on, they told me, their ‘farewell tour’, in the process of visiting touchstones from their childhoods while they were still fit enough to do so. The lady concerned had often come to the house when she was a child, as her parents were friends of the caretaker at the time. She told me that her main memories involved playing in the tunnels (two access tunnels run the length of the house, giving access for servants from the servant wing to the staterooms) and cellars – as she put it, ‘running about in the pitch black and screaming a lot’.

The tunnels are not open to the public, but then again I not been told to never show them to someone who might have a specific interest. It was a quiet day, so I asked if she would like to see if it was as she remembered. So, I helped her down the stairs into the tunnels. Afterwards, she was on the verge of tears, and thanked me profusely – it was as she remembered, albeit now well lit, and for a moment she has been 12 again.

I think to deliberately break a rule is, mostly, a bad idea. Bad rules need to be changed, not ignored. However, sometimes a bit of bending and creative interpretation might just be a good thing, if it can achieve some good.

Today’s Soundtrack: Charmless Man by Blur

I have never found myself able to keep a diary. Funnily enough, writing this weekly blog on whatever drifts across my consciousness is probably the closest I have ever gotten to that. I have often tried to write one, mainly to record places I have been, interesting things that I have seen, that sort of thing, and I have lost count of the times that I have started to write one, but it rarely lasts more than a couple of weeks, before it stutters and becomes erratic before dying once more. It is not that I get bored with my life or recording it; I quite like recording places visited as you tend to forget where you have been over time but the slightest confirmation that you have been to a place can often unlock the dormant memories of that experience. Possibly it is a symptom of my general lack of discipline which tends to exhibit itself as I slowly drift away from whatever it is towards something that looks more interesting.

Of course, then there is the whole question of who a diary or journal is for. I can entirely understand that if you are in the public eye for whatever reason, then maybe it is worth making some notes as you go along. Most of us do not have to worry too much about what we might say one day as normally we won’t be called out for inconsistency several weeks later; if you are well known then this is more likely to be something you need to address. And as any trip to a book discount store will prove there is always the autobiography or memoir to churn out at some point. If you have made copious notes, then that is going to come a bit easier. I was amused on reading the (very entertaining) memoir of Jeremy Paxman his admission in the foreword that much of the recollections therein came not so much from his memory or notes but from contributions of others that a better reflection of events; particularly amusing coming from a journalist.

Memoirs can be a dangerous thing to read, especially if it is written (or ghost written) by someone who you like or admire; you are never sure that you are not going to discover something that you would rather not have known about that individual. My preference is to go for people I think look interesting, that I not know much about their background and with whom I do not have any major investment to date. The Paxman book was a good example of that, and by the end of the book I had a lot more respect for the man than perhaps I would have had otherwise. I had a similar experience in reading the autobiography of cooking duo Si King and Dave Myers (otherwise known as the hairy Bikers) where I had no idea of the rough nature of their backgrounds and frank descriptions of the close shaves with death both had experienced over an eventful couple of lives. Oddly, and this is just coincidence, most of the autobiographies I have read recently seem to involve at least one brush with the Grim Reaper, seems to be a showbiz thing to have to survive accidents/cancer/brain tumours etc. etc. on the way to actual stardom. Not entirely sure it is worth it. But I guess they must mention it as life events go there is little more personal than your own life being in danger; even marriage or children, often side lined for their own safety in such books, involve others and are thus a shared experience.

I won’t ever be in the public eye (I hope) so my lack of diary is unlikely to hurt me later. My life is a good one overall, and the people most dear to me know what is going on in it most of the time anyway, so that is good enough for me. If I was to write an autobiography I would have an urge to make it up anyway, as what goes on in my head is – and I think many of us share this – far more interesting and better than reality anyway.

Today’s Soundtrack: Could have gone for the obvious, but I’m going for ‘Every Day I Write the Book’ by Elvis Costello

In our road, there is parking restriction to try and prevent those commuting into London from parking in our road rather than in the overpriced car parking at the station itself. I probably should explain that we live a couple of streets away from the trains station that would take us on a twenty to thirty-minute ride into the centre of London, yet neither of us do or have ever worked in central London, which sometimes perplexes people; in the end, we are here because of family and we were lucky to find a house we liked and even more blessed to find it at time when we could actually afford it; now we would have no chance. Anyway, we have this restriction so if we want to park the car in the street it must be moved elsewhere in the morning. When we bring it back, ideally we would like to park it outside our house, which I think most people would appreciate. But quite often we have to put it wherever we can, as parking is a at a premium, often some distance away.

Now, we have no right to the bit of pavement outside our house, or a right to park there. But it is hard not to feel that in some way it should be ours and to feel a little grumpy when it is occupied by a strange car (i.e., one not recognised as a fellow resident in the road, similarly afflicted). It made me think about how territorial we are as a species. It is entirely understandable, as we are a social species that live, mostly, in communities. We have, at least in our own heads, the idea of what is ‘our’ space, and wo betide anyone that might encroach on that (without our permission). To give a personal example, our house is largely surrounded now by people with young families. A year or so ago one of them had guests with their own little offspring, and it was not long before a football came over our back wall. I was in the process of coming out of the house when a small boy – encouraged by his Dad – climbed over our back wall to retrieve his ball. A short, cold – but polite – conversation ensued with the adult concerned and all was resolved amicably, but thinking about it I had two main issues. First, the back wall is off dubious quality and I would rather not be responsible for a child coming to harm, and that was the practical reason. But the other was simply that they had invaded my territory without asking. Contrastingly, our new next door neighbours, whose two boys regularly punt balls over our fence did ask once, and thus we happily throw the balls back for them when we notice they have made an appearance.

This whole territorial thing was thrown into stark perspective this weekend when we attended a couple of large scale music events in London, both with crowds of over 40,000. The events concerned allowed folding chairs and picnic blankets. Now, even though the event space was large, that is a lot of people to fit in and with the chairs etc. each person takes up a lot more space than a human being on their own would. What resulted on both days was effectively a seabird breeding colony, with each group or pair – including us – staking out its territory as best it could and trying to stop other groups encroaching on that. Unlike a seabird colony I did not see many actual squabbles break out – thankfully most territories were established before too much alcohol was consumed, but there was certainly the odd glare and the occasional muttering. We like living in community, indeed we need to, but community is at its most welcome when it keeps a reasonable distance.

It is odd becoming detached from places you knew so well in the past. Generally, I think it is fair to say that most of us struggle with change in any part of our life even when it is clearly for the better. Most changes are probably neutral anyway in terms of the overall impact they have on us; but the outcries that often emerge when an alteration to a well -liked building – as an example – is proposed can show how much people can object to change even when that change has no impact on them at all other than offending sensibilities. Incidentally, let me be very clear here, I have signed enough petitions of my own over time that I’m not criticising this, merely observing it.

I grew up in an old mining village in County Durham, about three miles from the town of Chester-Le-Street in a bungalow on what at the time was considered a ‘nice’ part of the village; my school headmaster (and local councillor) lived down the street; that kind of place.

I’m an only child but the lack of siblings (which was not deliberate on my parent’s part, they just did not happen and apparently, I was a bit of a ‘miracle’ as it was) was compensated for by a dog and any number of other pets over the years.

But apart from the revolving and evolving cast list of beasties that shared the house with us there was always a dog and considering my parents it was made clear that when I was old enough the job of walking her (and her successors) was laid firmly at my door. So, I spent a fair amount of time walking around the village and the fields behind our house that stretched up a farm at one side and a large comprehensive school on the other. As an aside this was the school I should have gone to, an ugly mass of white Sixties depression. My parents were persuaded by my junior school teachers (in their attractive Victorian red brick across the road) to find a better solution, and as the comprehensive periodically was set on fire – and we knew some of the teachers who had been physically attacked by pupils in class –  they did not need much in the way of persuasion

So, the view I grew up with was mostly of fields that you could run and play in, and a view to a largely empty horizon.

I have just come back from a weekend visiting my father, who now lives alone in the same bungalow. It has been six years since he came home from hospital after his cancer treatment, and five since the last dog died. I still find it odd that some canine is not greeting me as I walk through the door, or that I do not need to worry about putting down food at a level a dog could normally reach after decades of that being a recipe for disaster. Stranger still is that when I look out that window now what I can see has changed completely. An ever- increasing housing estate now covers the horizon and most of the fields; the farm is still there but more derelict every year and no doubt will be replaced by more houses at some point. Perhaps stranger still is that the school has been levelled, and this time they are not going to rebuild it.

The place I grew up with has irrevocably changed. I have mixed feelings about it as I miss that piece of my history which is now consigned only to memory. However, people need somewhere to live more than I need the view. And in the end, it helps me with the inevitable cutting of links; I go back to see my Dad and that is pretty much the only reason. My home was in one place when I was a child; now it is somewhere else, and in another Season, it will probably be somewhere else again. Change is inevitable, how well you cope with it is the measure of success.

Well that was a surprise. A Bank Holiday weekend in the UK where – at least where I was – it was gloriously sunny all weekend.  Somewhat of a rare occurrence.

We were lucky enough to be with friends down on the Dorset coast, a spectacularly beautiful part of the country in all weathers but especially nice when it is sunny and warm. In addition, the sea is clear and relatively warm in the summer and so it was nice to take advantage of that and get in several sessions of proper swimming in the sea – and one dunk for me in a cold river ford, but that was just for a laugh – it was not deep enough to swim in but was deliciously cooling on a very hot day and it seemed to amuse my fellow waders, most of whom under the age of six.

Swimming and I have an odd history. I was never very into it as a child and I think part of that was body self-confidence (or rather lack of) and a general dislike of swimming pools – something I carry to this day, I’d much rather jump in a river. For whatever reason when I ended up at my secondary school I was a very basic swimmer and could not manage backstroke.

So, then came the humiliation of remedial swimming lessons at lunchtime, as this was the kind of school where while it was OK to be useless at sport, basic incompetence was not tolerated. I hated the whole idea, if only because everyone knew I had to do them and I was therefore excluded from the fun everyone else was having during the break time.

Of course, I was entirely wrong about all this and looking back I am happy that I had to go through it. I’m now a competent swimmer and can enjoy it when the opportunity arises and I have some of the teachers at school to thank for that. But it was not the physical education staff that ran the lessons; it was other members of staff that took the classes on a voluntary basis, when their main role was teaching science or geography. I do not know what their motives were – I suspect that for some it was having experienced similar issues in their own lives. All I know is that these lessons were executed in a calm and matter of fact way, with a lot of patience. I can recall the day that I first allowed myself to lie back in the water – with a supporting hand initially – and realised that I did not sink; a moment of revelation from which thankfully there was no going back.

It is a shame I cannot say thank you to those people who helped me back then; some of them at least are no longer with us. Apart from the practical upshot of learning to swim and the freedom that gives me, it taught me another lesson. Sometimes you must accept that in order to achieve something important you might have to go back to the start and accept that your ego might have to take a back seat while you re-learn something you got wrong the first time but you were not prepared to admit because of the shame; because in the long term you’ll be in a better place.

Sadly, not much opportunity for wild swimming in Hertfordshire; and anyway, as the year goes on maybe it will just be a little too cold. But it was fun when it lasted and I’m sure I’ll be taking the plunge again at the next opportunity.

I can entirely understand the excitement around the total solar eclipse yesterday in the USA and I hope that lots of people get to experience something which I found very special. Hopefully they will get to see a bit more than I did all those years ago in Cornwall, but the sort of feelings that I recall from way back in 1999 have stuck with me, which is why if anyone ever asks me if it is worth putting yourself out to be right in the shadow of a total solar eclipse the answer would always be yes.

Back in 1999 I co-organized a group to go down to Cornwall for that eclipse, about fifteen of us camped out in Helston village hall; well it kept the costs down.

On the day of the eclipse everyone was rather excited. There was a general sense of anticipation in the local area, and perhaps also a little bit of nervousness. There is something very primal about celestial events, and the pub whose board outside jokingly read ‘Repent! The End of the World is Nigh!’ summed up the feeling quite well.

That enthusiasm was a little dampened by the fact it was obviously not going to be the best weather conditions at the relatively early hour the eclipse was due. We climbed up onto fields near the sea, on one side looking down onto Falmouth bay, and inland looking towards the massive radio telescopes of Goonhilly. As we sat down to wait we were at first mildly concerned we would be moved on by the approach of someone who was clearly the local farmer; in fact, he invited us to go into the middle of the next field and join his family and friends. That was the first thing; people acting in a way that was disturbingly friendly to complete strangers.

As we watched the clouds steadfastly obscuring the sun, we kept an eye on the clock. Eventually, fortified on sausage rolls and cake it was time.

We could not see the sun, but you very quickly saw something was changing. The best way I can describe it is that a wave of darkness swept towards us from the telescopes, and rolled over us and past, out to see, the darkness intensifying all the time until it was completely black. Serious, complete blackness. And silent. The cows in the field, the birds and everyone in the field were for a few seconds completely silent, as though everything was holding its breath. Looking out to see you could see light at the edge of the shadow, but for a few moments everything just stopped and the only movement was tiny flashes of light from the cameras of the masses that had collected on Falmouth beach.

And then suddenly it was over. It was as though               someone had turned up a huge dimmer switch as the return to daylight was quick, but also gradual. Suddenly the birds were singing as though it was dawn, the cows were mooing and pretty much everyone was hugging each other and giggling like five year olds. Champagne appeared in small plastic cups. No one seemed remotely upset we had not actually see the moon pass across the sun until a little glimpse through the clouds after the fact. But everyone under the shadow had felt it happen, and that was enough to cement it as an experience and for a short while at least bind everyone together with that shared happening.

The sense of euphoria lasted for most of the day. Nobody wanted to talk about it; there was not much to say, there was just this sense of release, as though the tension of the darkness had been lifted, the sun restored and life goes on. It is very easy to see how in the past such events were extremely portentous. We all knew that a few seconds later it would get light again, throughout much of history that was not the case. It must have been a terrifying experience in the past, but now it is a reminder of the celestial spheres and another of those wondrous things that the moon is just big enough at certain points to completely blot out the sun.

It’s just marvellous.

Well my attempt at a fitter me has been slightly derailed by overdoing it last week and resulting in a (thankfully appearing transient) back problem. I’m less worried about having to put a break on the weights work than being unable to run for a few days, as the part of me that expects every aspect of my life to hurtle towards a car crash at some point worries about the loss of fitness and an expectation that my weight will suddenly increase rapidly overnight.

Ah – yes, weight issues. I have always had a problem with my weight, from a child to the present day. There was a brief period in the late nineties/early 2000s when a combination of exercise and a better diet had dropped my BMI out of ‘overweight’ into normal but apart from that I have always carried more weight than I should have with all the accompanying – for me at least – body image issues.

I do not remember a time I has not fat as a child. And I was fat. The bullies at school were always there to remind me after all. The reasons for this were multiple. First off is that I’m my own worst enemy, with a personality that tends towards excess and a n aversion to the concept of rationing. Unfortunately for me, I was born into a loving family for whom showing love included never being hungry. So, I was fed well at home, and fed even more at grandparents. As an example, every Sunday was spent at grandparents and went along the same lines; large cooked breakfast in the morning, followed by the inevitability of Roast Pork and overcooked vegetables and tinned peaches and ice cream before everyone sat down in front of the TV and fell asleep leaving me to do my homework in peace. But about two hours later it was Teatime, so of course out came the sausage rolls, apple pie and scones and although no one could have been even remotely hungry to not at least attempt to eat some of it was unthinkable if my Dad was going to avoid a falling out with his mother.

And of course, by the time we got home it was supper time.

The real curse of this type of scenario is that you get used to it and it becomes a vicious cycle and that was how it worked as I just began to get larger and larger. Add to the equation that I hated sport at school anyway (and with my ever-increasing size proceeded to hate it more and more as I became even more useless and increasingly feeling the shame of my size in the mandatory communal showers meant that by the time I was fifteen I weighed fifteen stone; and I knew that a year earlier that had been fourteen. I was putting on a stone in weight every year.

Panic can be a good thing sometimes. I proceeded at this point to panic and started to cut back on what I was eating as best I could and take the dog for longer walks. It was not easy ducking the scones and pies but I managed it well enough to stop the progression and reverse it a little, although it still dogged me through university and still today; if it was not from my running I think I would be in a much worse place, so here’s hoping I stay injury free for a while so maybe I can get closer to a place where I feel good about myself.

I was somewhat amused that I wrote this blog only to find this news story on the BBC the same day, entirely coincidently http://www.bbc.com/news/health-40921856 so I’d better get my running shoes back on…

Last week was an unusual but satisfying one for us due to one rather unusual factor. We had someone else living with us. Just for about a week, admittedly, but there was another living, breathing human being in our house at bedtime and in the mornings and through the day. We are used to people being with us at weekends of course, but for an extended period? No, this was something new.

And something good too. One of our God children was staying with us while the rest of his family were otherwise engaged, so we had the joy of taking a thirteen-year-old for waffles, milkshakes, Roman ruins and watching 1980s fantasy/science fiction movies with popcorn in the evenings before bed.

I am not sure who was enjoying themselves more if I have to be entirely honest.

Now reflecting on the experience, it has taught me several things about myself that if you had asked me before I probably would have not considered. For example, I always thought of myself as being relatively patient; now I know that I can be remarkably impatient at times – good to know, easier to manage when you’re aware of a flaw. I also thought that with children, I would be the soft touch that would let them get away with anything. No, wrong again. I’m much more of a rule based disciplinarian than I thought I was, and the Lovely Wife turns out to be the good cop (I will say, as his parents will be reading this, bad cop wasn’t needed as he behaved impeccably, but I suddenly understood the terrible truth).

Of course, the most interesting thing was that, for a short time at least, we had acquired a child. When we started going out we were clear that we both wanted to have children. I was always convinced I was going to have a couple of daughters. I do not know why; it just was that way in my head. I even know what I would have called them. After we were married we were both convinced it could only be a matter of time. Life up to that point was a blessed one, with lovely things happening to us at what seemed exactly the right time. So, I was convinced that this would be no different and soon we would be worrying about schools and the like.

Then, after a while it became clear that nothing was happening. But we prayed, and we took it further practically by going for IVF. Walking through White City to the Hammersmith hospital became a regular appointment.

After the third failed cycle of treatment it was clear it was not going to happen and there is a point where you must consider the health of the adult over a diminishing chance of success. Even at this point we still had some hope – stories of couples conceiving after giving up because of the sudden lack of stress of expectation kept the flame alive for a while.

But it was not to be, and we had to face the fact that sometimes you do not get what you want, no matter how hard you try. Sometimes you want kids and will not get kids, just as the dream spouse may remain just that – a dream – for some people. That’s a hard thing to get hold of, especially if you have a faith. We struggled and still struggle. It is something you never get away from, it does not and cannot ‘heal’.  You work around it. Luckily for us, we had each other and because it hurt us both badly it meant our relationship remained strong (I would also note the support of our friends and family through this; sometimes in unexpected ways.)

Being childless does have its benefits. As with the visit of our God son we find that many of our friends want us to be involved in some way in their children’s upbringing (ensuring that our diary gets increasingly complicated, if only so we remember all their birthdays). Working with the youth at church not only gave us contact with some lovely young people at exactly the most stressful part of the whole process, and has unexpectedly led to some very special – and sustained – friendships that we cherish (not to mention the pride and joy of seeing those young people excel and develop in their own lives and feeling we have at least some little assistance in that).

Not being worn down by the more tiring aspects of bringing up children means we have the energy for it at friends and family gatherings – rare is the case that a summer BBQ does not end with me buried under a pile of giggling children (it just always seems to happen).

What we have and what we have been given to work with is still a lot – in the end we are still very blessed. We will continue to love other people’s children who are entrusted to us when we can. We can joke about having all the fun with them and then giving them back when they get tired and emotional.

But when I see a little girl clinging to her father with utter love and trust, I cannot help but cry a little inside that I will never experience that very special kind of love.

It is true however that if that little girl happens to glance over at me it is almost certain that I will pull a silly face and probably stick my tongue out at her. You cannot take the child out of the man, thankfully.

Yesterday I had my induction at a local gym that I have somewhat reluctantly decided should be a place I probably need to be more familiar with.  I’ll be clear right from the outset that I hate gyms. The reasons are multiple but even the basic concept – that people should pay good money for the privilege of torturing yourself on a regular basis on machines that would not look out of place in a medieval torture chamber (and indeed have the capacity for causing similar levels of pain). I don’t get it. For me personally they remind me of school gyms too much of the time, places I think of as a place of overweight teenage humiliation as, naked except for the regulation blue trunks, that I was forced to learn how to do a forward role ‘properly’, a futile exercise that taught me nothing I ever needed and rubbed the skin raw on my shoulders.

It is not the exercise, anyone who knows me I run most days and it is an important part of my life – and keeps me at least in touching distance of what might be called reasonably fit. It is just the nature of the gym environment that makes me self-conscious and a bit uncomfortable, especially if the place is busy. For those of us who fall something short of the body beautiful it is hard to feel you are being judged and assessed. It should not matter of course, but equally we all know it is quite hard to feel/avoid feeling what we should. The little voice at the back of your head is unfortunately quite persuasive and knows exactly how to press your uncertainty and self-conscious buttons.

So back to the induction at the gym. Why? Considering the obvious level of distaste, I do seem to be being inconsistent. In the end though this became a bit of a change that needed to be made. I have been a member of gym a couple of times before and the experience was not a bad one.  In fact, when I was lucky enough to have a small, quiet pay as you go gym across the road from where I was living at the time I was in there most nights (but then of course I was a lot younger and single). What I do recall is that after a while I could feel the benefits and it helped back up my running by addressing the areas that could not. It seems clear to me that based on my current level of fitness if I want to improve my running times – and while I am hardly competitive – I need to shakeup what has become too much of a routine of the same runs at the same pace and that building myself a more holistic exercise programme, with a few races planned before the end of the year to aim towards seems to be the way to go. So, that means extending my runs, adding intervals and hill reps (which are hateful but effective in building strength, which I learned from my marathon training a few years ago) and the gym to work on upper body and core are now on the horizon and based on the induction where the very nice young chap who introduced me to the various items of torture managed just about not to laugh at my inability to do press ups I certainly need to get working on stuff.

Time will tell if it is going to be a fad or I’ll actually make it stick, and I’ll never make it onto the cover of ‘Men’s Health’ (thank goodness) but maybe I’ll feel a bit better about myself and hopefully allow me to ignore some implications from the sad reality of my actual age.