God put down his fine, horsehair brushes when he painted me, and opted instead for a post-modernistic stick of dynamite in a bucket of Dulux. I imagine Him stood there, half a bottle of Absinth down, beret lopped over on one side, shirt ripped down to the navel, round sunglasses clinging to the end of His nose and a twinkle of menace in His wandering eyes as he lights the fuse, slurring, "f@ckin' sick of these creatures".
The fuse snuffed out half way down, and after a tut followed by more incoherent expletives, He walked over and kicked the bucket against the wall. And that is how I came to be. True story.
W1R0 - crocked. How does anyone crock themselves before their first run?
Well, not crocked-crocked, but twingy.
Well, not twingy-twingy, but just another instance of me being an absolute mess of a human being.
I've been working away for the last few months and got back last week. Catching up with some long overdue family time, we grabbed hold of a rare day of October sunshine and drove along the coast to Weymouth. An absolute dream of a day spoilt only by the family. I'm joking of course.
A lot of running, playing, sand-castling, kid-burying, kid-exhuming (under strict instruction from the wife. They were having so much fun, I thought I could sneak a quick pint in, but oh, no! Bloody kids are too mollycoddled these days), then finding detached crab legs and leading a futile expedition to go and find the poor crab who lost them, probably hopelessly pushing itself around in tight circles with one good limb. I was disappointed not to find it to be honest, we would've been kindred. After that, off to the funfair to risk our safety at the hands of acne-ridden mouth-breathers operating ill-maintained equipment.
It started getting pretty perilous for me on the short walk from the beach to the funfair; carrying a kid on each hip as well as a lifetime's collection of saturated fat around the midriff quickly takes its toll on the rickety old legs.
At the age of...hang on...am I 37 or 38? I genuinely can't remember. That's worrying in itself...37.
At the age of 37, I probably shouldn't be referring to myself as old and rickety, but a body is like a car, and you don't value a car by age alone; it's all about mileage and upkeep, and I've got some serious miles on the clock and zero service history. If I ever need a blood transfusion, they'd have to dig the dregs out with a spoon.
So, carrying kids with rickety old legs, they decide to play a brand, spanking new highly creative game called "let's finish daddy off".
"Don't step on the lava daddy!"
"What lava? There's no f@cking lava here. Are you daft? You're lucky I'm not paying for your education."
Side note - kids are 3 1/2 and 10 months. And before any of you do-gooders are on the phone to social services, I don't really talk to them like this. I only think it.
"What's the lava?"
"The sea weed. Jump, daddy!"
I perform a less-than-masculine prance over a bit of sea weed.
"And the crack daddy!"
Prance.
"Hahahahahaha. Jump!"
Prance.
"Hahahahahaha. Jump!"
Prancing getting feebler.
"Higher!"
You get the idea.
After ten goes, my legs are like jelly and my knees are bending sideways. My 10-month-old son isn't like most 10-month-olds. He came out at 11lbs and hasn't stopped eating since. That was the only labour I'm aware of that needed a winch and a Land Rover. My wife took it well though, she can even sit down again now. Honestly, he is like the marshmallow man from the original Ghostbusters. He's just started tottering and is now affectionately dubbed The Destroyer of All Things. He is half a ton of flesh and an absolute scourge on my knees. My daughter loves to ride on my shoulders, but won't just sit up straight like normal kids. She likes to lean forward and look me in the eyes. It's like a long, drawn out, inhumane execution strategy.
My wife accuses me of double-standards when it comes to the kids. Apparently, I'm doting on my daughter's every wish, still feeding her and cuddling her to sleep, but moaning at my son for not bringing a wage into the house. He's 10 months old and not even a single interview! I keep asking him about his CV and just met with a vacant, partially toothed expression and a delayed string a dribble slowly falling off his chin. I had a paper-round at his age. I think. My memory is a bit sketchy these days...
Right, so funfair. I take my daughter on the bumper cars. Those things could do with an "inclusiveness" revamp. You can even get baths with doors these days, but entering these things is still like a bloody contortionist act in itself. It took me five minutes before I could decide the best way in, and I think I got that wrong. And getting back out "apparently" was not a good use of the Fire Brigades time. What I say to that is that if I was a Firefighter, I'd relish every opportunity to crack out the Jaws of Life, and assume that they do too.
A couple of rides that didn't require adult involvement were an absolute delight. Particularly listening to the shallower end of the genepool barking their kids' weird names out with ironic pride.
"Thorin! Don't climb out of the tractor!"
"Justina, give mummy [and, presumably, sister] a wave!"
"Dior! Pull your trousers back up! No! Don't you dare wee there! What did I just tell you?!"
I'm surprised these places don't charge three tokens just to people-watch. I'd gladly pay it.
Anyway, onward to the absolute devil incarnate. When the devil comes to visit us, he doesn't turn up all horned and snarly, he's more cunning than that. He disguises himself as dainty little carousels, the ones with the horses that go up and down and round to some spine-chilling faux-Victorian soundtrack.
Twee, huh? That's what I thought; but no, It was about as graceful as an abattoir. I asked the responsible person (who'd inexplicably managed to get a full twist in his face mask) if I could stand next to my daughter and hold her so she didn't slip off and was informed that I couldn't stand - that's obviously far too dangerous - but I was perfectly fine to inelegantly mount the adjacent slippery, testicle flattening demon and put an arm around her. So I did, and the ride catapulted into life at half the speed of light, and I spent the next few minutes thigh-gripping this plastic creature until cracks appeared in its neck, whilst leaning out at a right-angle, like some Spaghetti Western runaway carriage rescue, grabbing on to my future pension topper-upper as she slipped one way to the other, beaming and giggling all the way around. The maneuver got trickier than plate spinning with Parkinson's when her horse started to go up as mine went down, and vice versa.
It took me most of the afternoon to shake off the bow-legs. I had to wait until the next morning for my left testicle to reemerge.
Sunday was an exercise write-off, I spent most of the day just laid out on the floor with kids jumping on me from varied heights, and too weak to fight off the felt pens and glittery lip gloss that were coming at me like a horny dog.
But, I made a commitment to run today, so run I did! Even though my legs ne'er once bent at the knees, it was still running! Even though my feet refused to flex beyond five degrees, it was still running (there are dents in the pavement to prove it). Even though I could've crushed a diamond between my buttocks, technically it was still running. But an odd place to keep a diamond, I'll admit.
W1R1 in the bag. Again. Let's hope it stays there. They always say the first run is the hardest. I bloody well hope so! Runs two and three on Wednesday and Friday respectively. I'll check back in at the weekend, if I'm still of this earth, and try to sum it up in less than fifty-thousand words next time. Although, no promises.
Happy running you bunch of oddballs. I apologise if anyone's kids / grandkids are called Thorin, Justina or Dior. The person makes the name, not the other way round. Although to "make" some of those is the difference between baking a cake and wiring a satellite. Toodles!
Cheerful realisation at end of long few weeks!
Around 9 weeks go ......
Should be starting Week 9 but instead I'm feeling sorry for myself! 
9 weeks really realistic??
If only a weeks holiday was as long as Week 7 - 19 days.
