Definitely not one for the squeamish, but long after 5k, I am still suffering. And it’s not just an excuse to curtail physical exercise and spend my days munching Jensen’s Frazzles (Can you believe it, eight packets for £1 from Iceland?) My feet have turned into pork sausages (Morrison’s rather than Jamie Oliver) and my ankles are painfully swollen.
In a sort of travesty of “before” and “after” pictures, here I am (in thinner days in Marrakesh). Perhaps I am morphing into a member of the Morbidly Obese, or may be it’s the first sign of a pending pulmonary embolism. Other bits of me appear to be falling apart too. In the coming week, I have a possible triple whammy (tooth extraction, humiliation at Sports Day, and a resolution (or not) of ATP). Honestly, it’s worst than finding a mummified wasp in your Snikers Bar.