Ruth Walker: ‘Drinking, dancing And Dalek biscuits – not the training Running Man had in mind’

Published on Tuesday 7 February 2012 00:00

I HAVEN’T done my homework. The dog didn't eat it, it didn't go through the washing machine and I didn't lose it while diving into a lake to save a drowning child (all, apparently, genuine excuses given by genuine schoolchildren who haven't yet learned the dark art of lying convincingly: keep it simple, kids, and never underestimate the intelligence of your lie).

No one likes homework. It’s the ‘work’ bit that is key. You’re at home, ergo you’re NOT working. You’re doing cool stuff like eating leftover curry in front of Take Me Out and experimenting with calling your boyfriend on Facetime from the bath.

And anyway, my homework isn't the tangible kind that can get lost or eaten or soggy. My running coach has told me to increase my big weekend run by ten minutes, and to fit in another smaller run through the week as part of my training for the Rock ’n’ Roll half in April. It seemed achieveable when he said it; fun, even. But I have done neither. And now time is – er – running out.

I know you don’t want to hear my excuses. But I’m going to give you them anyway. You see, I’m a busy girl. Life gets in the way sometimes. Work piles up, family demands encroach and before you know it, it’s the weekend.

Then a friend comes round for drinks on the Friday and, no doubt fuelled by the cheapest white wine known to woman, you end up dancing round the living room to vintage Madonna and writing inappropriate tweets well into the wee smalls. Oh dear.

You’d take the next day easy – eat healthily, stay off the jiggy juice, go to bed early – except it’s another friend’s birthday party and, anyway, you’ve already bought your Bladerunner fancy dress costume specially.

You might be worried it’s a bit indecent – fishnets, suspenders, biker boots and black face paint aren’t your usual Saturday-night look. “Should I call a cab rather than get the bus?” you ask the Teenager. She looks you up and down twice, sneers, then says, “Yes, and just get it to take you straight to Salamander Street.” The cheek.

There’s more drinking. More dancing. And there are Dalek biscuits. Perhaps this isn’t quite the training regime Running Man had in mind.

So Sunday comes. It’s a dream of a day. Bright, cool, just a whisper of a wind. You wake late with an unexplained bruise on your hip. You wonder if perhaps you carried out that threat of cartwheeling across the bar and crushing the birthday boy’s head between your thighs. But no. Surely not ...?

You delay it until lunchtime, then guilt gets the better of you. So you run. You run and run like an excited puppy with more energy than is decent. You should be dehydrated and tired (and possibly limping a little due to your cartwheeling exploits). But in the end, it’s the best run you’ve had in ages. You run further and faster and, when you eventually stop, you feel sure you could keep on going.

Where’s the logic? Some days your feet feel like lead and every step is an almighty plod; others you’re the Duracell bunny. Go figure. Maybe you should go out on the sauce more often.

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