Running... out of headers

I am on the brink of signing up for the Race For Life in Hyde Park on July 24th.

It's only 5km *snorts with horror/laughter*

It's just that, if I don't have a deadline hanging over me, I will procrastinate, stand in front of the open fridge eating pesto and mustard with a butter knife, lie on the sofa staring at the ceiling, anything, anything, rather than go running. Unless I am threatened by humiliation, mild violence, or docked pay, I don't do stuff. That's just the way I am. On the rare occasions I DO do stuff without being coerced, I feel wonderful. And I think - I could be like this all the time! And life would be just peachy sweet! But do I change? No I don't.

And the race raises money for Cancer Research, and I know my Auntie Gilly would have a right laugh at the idea of me helping to generate funds through the medium of sport. Honestly, if you could see the colour of my face when I exercise, you'd cry, you really would.

I went out on my own for the first time last night. Somebody brilliant suggested I use my old tape-fuelled Walkman for musical inspiration, as I have to carry my discman gently along on just the right slant, as if it were a saucer of milk. Even when it is lovingly perched in my lap on the train, a bump on the track can send it skittering into an abyss of confusion, leaving me tapping, turning, tilting and squeezing it encouragingly for anything up to ten minutes, until the music blasts back into my ears and makes me jump like a startled kitten.

So, not much use for running, really.

The problem with tapes is, I only have two at home. One is Reactivate 10, a quite profoundly brilliant collection of superb dance music classics, compiled in what must have been a vintage year. The other tape is Wham! If You Were Here, which is in many different ways an inspiration. I mean, I live my life by the lyrics of the Wham Rap. No really, I do. But I'm not sure if it's suitable jogging fayre.

I may also be close to perfecting my outfit, although it ain't pretty. When I started this job, I found a freebie Reebok sporty supporty orangish toppy thing in my desk drawer, which had been confined to under-bed storage, never to be worn, until I remembered it was there and retrieved it. Amazing how those things offer so much support. Bra straps, you see, dive off the shoulder at the first sign of vigorous movement. Well trained, my bras.

Sadly, the top clashes horribly with the red trackies and the puce face (oh, oh, my face), but is concealed by the hoodie. I've also added a scarf - which miraculously halted the potentially jog-threatening neck stiffness - and stuck a bit of gum in my face to aid concentration. An unsolicited bonus was that when I ran around a corner and unexpectedly straight into a sprawling, pavement-wide gang of brawling, marauding chavs, I was eyeballed curiously yet allowed to pass. If they'd looked closely, they would have realised there was no Burberry or Nickleson or McKenzie or Hackett, but I fooled them with my camouflage and was allowed to pass unmocked, and un-spat at.

And the biggest surprise about the running? I don't hate it.

Weird.