Full details of the weekend’s My Friend Oli adventures in Durham.  Stay tuned…

The Tac-alarm rouses us again and we roll ourselves out of bed. Having done the “history” side of Durham yesterday, K deems today Shopping day. There’s just so many to explore.

We hit Saddlers to fuel ourselves up for the day ahead and then wander up to the Cathedral to get a peek at the bits we missed yesterday, including the absurdly well-stocked gift shop, with all the usual selections of rubbers, pencils, notebooks and such like, but also the most amazing selection of miniature sculptures and jewelery. It’s all I can do to resist putting the entire shop on my credit card (minus the rubbers – not so bothered about those).

From the Cathedral (after a quick re-fuel in the coffee shop – that’s how long we were there for…) we head out on our pilgrimage through the land of the knick-knack shops and obscenely expensive clothing and jewelery stores. Not only is Durham the most beautiful city, but it has the most wonderful selection of shops and boutiques I’ve ever seen in one place. From your regular, everyday staples like BHS, Marks and Sparks, Top Man and the like, they run the gamut right down to the tiniest of independent bookstores, somehow holding their own against the gargantuan chains of Waterstones and Smiths.

Hours and hours later (I think) we finally succumb to needing a proper rest and head back to the college for a wee kip and 40 winks (we’re in need of both), after which we ready ourselves for a quiet night together in the centre.

We head to the Market Tavern, a recommendation from Pops and co, which turns out to be pretty disappointing. Cracking Nachos to start with, but the burgers are lacklustre and tasteless and definitely not worth the price I fork over at the bar.

Rather than stopping in there for another pint, we take ourselves off to Varsity again, this time making use of my complimentary V-card membership thrown in with my goodie bag at the fashion show last night. K, unfortunately, doesn’t have one and so has to pay for entry, but gets herself a card in the process, which leads us to the bar at which we discover that everything behind it is £1 – pints and spirits – and once again hail the wonder of the student town.

Pops is supposed to be catching us up this evening after an event she’s been summoned to, but unfortunately it drags on and on and she never makes it. We cope fine in the big wide world by ourselves, though, and instead sit and enjoy the sight of foolhardy students partaking in the Lumley Run.

For the uninitiated among you (as we were until we questioned the Gentleman holding a pint to one side of an enormous pool of vomit in the street), the Lumley run is a 7 mile run undertaken by mostly Freshers from Lumley Castle (no idea if I’ve spelled that right) to Durham Castle on the top of the hill. So far so regular. On the run from Lumley to Castle, however, there are 23 pubs and at those 23 pubs a total of 11 pints to be consumed in various guises, all of which must take up the least possible amount of time, as the first man home wins himself a membership to an exclusive Gentlemen’s club in London.

By the time the participants arrived at the Shakespeare (where we first learned of their fate), they are essentially almost home and so exhausted that their body simply rejects whatever they put into it, hence the rather attractive floor decoration we encountered. From our seats in the window of Varsity, we are occasionally greet with the tail-enders hauling themselves up the final hill, “encouraged” by a veteran of the run who, judging by their relative buoyancy, have been spared the necessary lubrication on the way round the course.

Once the entertainment has passed and we’ve made the most of the drinks offers (well, I managed a pint, but you can’t go living too crazily, booze-wise, post-transplant), we call it a night and walk ourselves home (see Bill – we can do it!) to a relatively early bed. Tomorrow is a long drive, plus we have to be out of the room by 10, which is normally when we’re thinking about waking up!

I wake to my Tac-alarm (the 10am call that stirs me every morning I’m not up in time for my morning dose of Tacrolimus, my main immunosuppressant) and sit and read for a while as K comes to.  Once we’ve rolled out of bed and managed to get some clothes on, we hop in the car and run ourselves into town.  The walk along the river yesterday was great, but knowing we’re going to be exploring all over the hills of Durham today, we opt to take the car in to the centre so the journey home is easier if we’re exhausted by the end of the day.

We park up in their multi-storey by the Elphick Bridge and wander out through their “shopping centre”.  I use inverted commas because it’s not so much a shopping centre as a centralised collection of shops in a U-shape off a parking structure.  Given the olde worlde nature of the rest of the city, the cul-de-sac of high-street shops is somewhat incongruous, but we let it slip past us as we wander off and up the Bailey in search of breakfast, which we find not halfway up the street in the shape of Saddler’s, a small-but-perfectly-formed little cafe which does breakfast till 12 (we make it by 15 minutes) and other luxury items throughout the day.

Having charged ourselves for the day ahead, we continue up the Bailey towards the Palace green and the Cathedral which towers over the whole of the centre of Durham.  I pull out the camera to snap some pics as we approach only to discover I’ve forgotten to charge the battery.  I swear at myself a lot.  Mostly under my breath, although a couple of passing pigeons may have heard a little bit of blue-air in passing, for which I profusely apologise.   What makes it more galling is the fact that the weather forecast for the next few days is terrible, including snow storms tomorrow.  As we walk up to the Cathedral, with the castle bearing down on us from behind, the skies are a crystal-clear blue with barely a smattering of clouds, the city bathed in a warm Spring glow which fails to dissipate through the day.  I’m furious with myself for missing the best part of the weekend to snap decent pics of one of my new favourite homeland locations.

After an interval that would seem short for even the most temperamental five-year old, I clear out of my funk as we enter the cathedral.  It’s magnificence defies even my power of description.  I’m relieved to see all the signs telling me photography is forbidden, making me mildly less frustrated, but am soon distracted by all the point-and-wonder beauty of the inside of the building.  From the windows to the pillars, ever inch of the cathedral is steeped in over 1000 years of history.  The cathedral itself used to provide a respite for fugitives and law-breakers.  With a single knock on the great door, they would be admitted for safe harbour, given 30 days to sort out their affairs or leave the country through the nearest port.

The main hall of the cathedral is adjoined by a cloistered area and a dozen or so more rooms which afford the place ample space for coffee-shops, souvenirs and all the additional gubbins of a modern-day historical site whilst still allowing it to go about it’s regular daily business as a place of worship.

We eventually decide that it’s too much for us to take in after a big walk and with feet starting to ache, so we adjourn for the day to lower climbs down at the bottom of the hill over the bridge where we settle in for lunch at the Swan and 3 Cygnets, a pub which doesn’t end up providing the rustic-pub-grub that we had been hoping for, but it’s decent enough sustenance all the same.

While we eat, we talk to Pops, who’s calling it quits on her day’s work and heading down to meet us, nothing at all to do with the cafe opposite the pub having, “the best cake in Durham” (a direct quote from the text message).  She and her other half wander down and we head over the road to the Cafe Continental and seclude ourselves away in their uppermost room, where the two of them have lunch while K joins them in dessert.  I restrict myself a mediocre milkshake, but I’m assured by all and sundry that the cakes are, indeed, magical.

Totally failing in our planned return to the college to catch some Z’s before the later afternoon’s programme of events, we instead end up sitting and whiling away most of the afternoon in the cafe with Pops and Alex, covering as many conversational bases as it’s possible to cover without slipping into a brain-frying tangential spiral more akin to Eddie Izzard.  Mind you, we still manage to fit in a good few tangents all the same.

We head back to the college, paying our extortionate parking charges on the way, and grab a quick feet-up 20 minutes before we head back up to Castle for the afternoon’s main attraction, the Big Chill With Bill – an opportunity for the Durham students to come and meet their Chancellor that surprisingly few of them take up.  I’m not too disappointed though, as the group who do arrive mean the afternoon is passes in an intimate chat about organ donation and the amazing gift of life – both Pops and I relaying our various personal stories of transplant (her brother being a heart-recipient 2 years ago), with interjections from various people in the group to ask questions or find out what more they can do to help.  In any of the talks of events I do, however formal or informal, I always feel that if one person goes away and talks to someone else, or signs someone up to the ODR, then it’s been a worthwhile use of my time and that’s exactly how I feel as K and I walk away from the Castle to shoot back to the college to change for the main event of the evening.

The Hatfield College Charity Fashion show is an annual event that is run entirely by students (as the Master of the College’s wife was so keen to inform us).  Having never been to a fashion show before, I have no idea what to expect, but manage to take the majority of it in my stride.  Sitting on top table as guests of honour (well, of the Chancellor, anyway), we are afforded one of the best views in the house, which is only a little uncomfortable when watching the La Senza section as the barely-out-of-their-teens models (my God, I sound old) parade themselves mere inches from their Chancellor’s face.  I’ve no idea what he’s thinking, but I don’t know where to look, so take to alternately bitching with Pops and K, sitting either side of me.

The main highlight of the evening (apart from a 3-item attempt at an auction, which included dinner with one of the male models) is the group photo after the fact with all the models in My Friend Oli t-shirts, myself and Bill.  Promotion/attention seeking as I am, I have high hopes that the free t-shirts will be worn and talked about all over Durham and the photos will find their way into as many student publications as  Alice and Pops can persuade.

Torn between wanting to experience a night out in Durham and the fact that we haven’t managed the rest we needed during the day, K and I finally decide we don’t want to push it too far, so after saying our farewells to Bill, who will from here on out be detained on Uni duties and too busy for the campaign (we have spent our allotted day of his time, which is more closely guarded than many a club door on a Saturday night) , we head back to the college to crash out, which we do by 11pm. 

First fact of the weekend – Durham is far.  Not far like as in quite a long way from MK, I mean far as in get-up-early, leave-before-lunch, drive-for-ages, double-stop and still only just get there before nightfall.

So get up early(ish) we do, drag our butts out of bed and K breakfasts while I repack all my useless packing from the night before into a better case which, I hope, will be easier to handle.  We set off by 10, making a quick stop off at Parental Lewingtons to say Hi and drop off the Mother’s Day gift and card for the day we’ll sadly be missing out on tomorrow.  Part of me feels terrible for not being around to share it with my wonderful mother, but I know that actually, what will make her happier than anything is knowing that I’m able to be off gallivanting and enjoying myself at the other end of the country.  And a nice pair of earrings doesn’t hurt, either.

We’re off and away onto the M1 by 11 and start the trek to the North.  And then a bit further.  One of the dispiriting things about heading that far North, as I have previously to Newcastle, a mere pebble-chuck from Durham, is that you travel for ages on the M1 and eventually get passed Sheffield to Leeds and you realise that you’ve still got as far to go again to get to where you want to be.  Still, it could be worse – we could have paid £360 for the both of us to do the 5-hour train journey instead.

Along the way we rock the iPod, whiling away the miles listening to a track-listing of the machine’s choice, occasionally edited by the passenger-seat DJ.  We finally roll into Durham off the A1(M) at somewhere around 4 o’clock and amazingly find our accommodation within 10 minutes after only a single phone-call to our Castle-based “fixer” the ever-attentive Pops, doyen of the My Friend Oli campaign.

The room is a spacious twin guest room in the college of St Hilde and St Bede.  I’ve no idea who they are, but as Saints go, they have a good line in comfy sleeping-quarters and nice, deep baths.  No sooner are we in than I hit the sack to crash out for an hour, before we venture up into town to meet Pops and her little (although really rather tall) bro.

The walk from the college into town gives us our first visual impression of the city of Durham and as first impressions go, it’s hard to imagine a better one.  With light shimmering off the river as we wander along the towpath, we pass the hardy-yet-incredibly-foolish rowers packing up into the rowing club, then round the corner to get our first sight of the Cathedral and Castle atop the hill in the centre of town.  With the Elvet Bridge mirroring itself in the inky blackness of the river, the scene is as close to mesmerizingly seductive as it’s possible for the still life of a city to be.

After climbing the biggest set of stairs we were to encounter all week (and encounter them fairly darn often, too), we manage to bump into Pops and bro on the bridge itself.  It’s the first time since the campaign kicked off that I’ve actually met Pops, despite numerous conversations by phone, email and good ol’ reliable Facebook.  Not surprisingly, what with this being a student town and Pops being a resident hard-core studenty-type, the first thing we do is settle in the nearest  bar.  This is where I fell in love with Durham head-over-heels – where else but a student town could you pick up a round of drinks consisting of a pint of Guiness, a half of Kroenenburg, a double-Gin and lemonade and a coke for under a tenner?  Certainly not in any of the bars in MK.

After an interval of one-and-a-half rounds (don’t worry, I was on Coke), we are joined by Pops’ just-arrived, former-native other half.  No sooner had the longed-for-loved-one turned up than Pops abandons us to make her final prep for tonights’s closing night of Assassins, the Sondheim musical she’s MD’ing, in amongst all her work on My Friend Oli, plus uni work, plus Oli-sitting duties for the weekend.

After the most rushed meal I’ve eaten in a long time (which came back to haunt me later, but that’s another story all together), the four reprobates she left in the pub stumble/run/lurch our way up the Bailey just in time to slide apologetically into our seats having delayed the start of the show with our tardiness.  Well, I like to think we were important enough to delay the start of the show, but then again it was probably more likely to be problems tying John Wilkes Booth’s cravat than anything to do with up.

I’ve not seen Assassins before and I was pleasantly surprised – I often struggle with the first viewings of Sondheim shows, even if they do grow on me with time.  Although there were a fair share of technical problems with radio mics and odd-lighting (largely due to the awkward nature of the venue, it must be added, rather than any ineptitude on the part of the production team), it was an impressive show, especially considering the speed with which it was put together and the work-load the cast have to carry outside of the Theatrical realm.

The show also marked the first time in 2 years I’ve seen the ever-marvellous and always Gentlemanly Bill Bryson, Chancellor of Durham Uni, world-renowned author and – let’s not forget – instigator of the whole My Friend Oli campaign, following our first meeting and subsequent phone chats since.  It’s great to see him again and spend a bit of time catching up on our news.  Well, I say “our” but in reality, the first evening is spent almost entirely and exclusively talking about me and my op, many of the details of which Bill had yet to be appraised of.

After the show, K and I decide to judiciously step aside and let the cast and crew make the most of their last night party without forcing Pops and the rest of the My Friend Oli gang (the ever-organised events-queen Alice) to feel the need to nanny us through the night and thus not really take part in all the usual shenanigans that one should at the close of a production.

Being the impossibly nice person he is (seriously, you have to see it to believe it), Bill insists on walking us the 20 minutes back to our lodgings along the riverside before heading back to exactly where he’d just been to catch his own cab back to his residence.

Bushed from the day’s driving and the night’s exertions (not least the hills of Durham), we are both in bed by 10.30 and I’m fairly sure I’m asleep by 10.31.  But I’m already dreaming of living in Durham.

Great day today – not only did I get through a second gym session in 2 days with no ill effects (read all about it…), but also found out that I’ve hit the Plymouth Sound website.

Because the Marines are based in Plymouth (and possibly because my bro happens to be dating one of the presenters), the local radio station (I say local, they’re pretty awesome, not like some “locals”  I could speak of….) have picked up on the marathon story and are running pieces not only on air but on their website too.  They’ve even included links to the ODR and my Just Giving page so people can either show their support financially or just by signalling their intention of saving someone’s life after they’re gone.

It’s getting quite exciting this marathon lark.  What with the gym sessions and all, I’m starting to think that being able to run a mile in 6 weeks’ time isn’t necessarily totally beyond my reach.  Not sure how fast I’m going to do it, but then the Marines are going to have done 25 miles and be weighed down with 30lbs of kit, so at least I’m not going to be the only one looking shattered by the whole thing.  Although I think I might feel a little inferior jogging across the line just little ol’ me – I might have to fill a rucksack with polystyrene to make myself blend in more.

I also impressed myself today by being remarkably sensible and going against my all-go post-Tx mood and having a sleep this afternoon.  We’ve had a bit of a busy few days since heading to friends in Kettering on Sunday and having two early-morning hossie appointments for K two days in a row, which has added up to not much sleep and lots of go-ings during the days.  Getting back in from the hossie run to Northampton this morning, I spent a bit of time trying to keep sleep at bay checking my emails and doing some work-y bits and pieces, but in the end decided that if my body says “tired” then to bed I must take it – not point playing games with a body still in recovery.

Pretty smart, huh?

Monday’s been a pretty nothing-y kind of day – hossie appointment early this morning for K, after which I dropped her at work and came home.

I sat and watched most of Last King of Scotland, Kevin Macdonald’s flick about the regime of Idi Amin in Uganda and his Scottish doctor who fails to realise what’s going on under the rule of the infamous dictator. It’s a fantastic film, Macdonald’s first fiction turn after the incredible BAFTA-winning documentary Touching the Void. If you’ve not seen either of them, I can’t urge you enough to see them.

Touching the Void is not your usual dry documentary, but even if it were the story alone is compelling enough to keep you clinging to the edge of your seat. Before I saw it I didn’t have much love for documentary feature-making, but Macdonald shows that docs can be just as exciting – if not more so in a lot of cases – as any Hollywood bang-for-your-buck blockbuster.

Last King of Scotland is mostly remarkable for it’s two central performances – Forrest Whittaker as Amin (for which he won the Best Actor Oscar last year) and James McAvoy, the then-up-and-coming, now bona-fide star, who plays his personal physician. It’s brutal and gruesome in parts, but please don’t let that put you off (there’s enough warning to let you look away), with the two leads performing an almost perpetual dance around each other which draws you in. It is by no means a demolition job on Amin, but rather a carefully drawn portrait which shows you not only how terrible he was, but also how charismatic, how inspiring and how self-confident he was. When you see this film it helps you to understand how leaders and dictators like Amin, like Hitler, can rise to power when they seem so extreme. It’s all about the cult of personality.

I didn’t get through the entire flick before heading to fetch K from work, from where we headed straight to the gym and then on to the cinema to catch Wong Kar Wai’s My Blueberry Nights.

Wong is known for his art-house foreign language movies, many of which have been considerably successful over here in their given scene, although you may not have heard of them. This is his first English-language film, for which he recruits a cast which combines Marquee names like Jude Law and Natalie Portman with solid British thesps like Rachel Weisz, top character actors like David Strathairn and is lead in an outstanding debut performance by better-known-as-singer/songerwriter Norah Jones.

Strathairn is worth the price of admission alone, as one of the greatest portrayals of alcoholism as I’ve seen on screen. It’s not just the perfect notes he hits in his various levels of stupor, but the contrast he creates with his daily working persona, the classic working-man’s drunk.

Jones is very good too, carrying the film on her shoulders with no noticeable nerves or lack of conviction. But one of the key things in turning in any good performance is the people you have to work with and when you play one-on-one scenes throughout a picture with the likes of Law, Weisz and Portman, you know they’re going to help you raise your game.

It’s not a flawless movie and it feels a lot longer than it’s 90-0dd minute running time, but it’s definitely worth a watch if you’re into tails of life and love and everything in between. It’s a little heavy on the food-fetish for my tastes, but each to their own.

First time in over a week I’ve been to the cinema (withdrawal symptoms kicking in big-time), I shot across town to catch Rambo this afternoon with Dazz.

It’s really a surprisingly good film. It’s more than just what it says on the tin, although you can’t go far wrong expecting what you would expect from a Rambo film. For the pacifists and haters of action-movies and film-violence, this puppy was never going to be for you, but for those looking for a bit of a no-brainer it’s not quite that either.

All the elements one would expect of a Rambo movie are there – huge death-toll, cheesy-but-great one-liners, Sly in a headband – but there’s more to it than that, not least the realisation from the scribes that people like Rambo just don’t do a lot of talking. The hero’s lack of dialogue is deftly handled, adding weight to the utterances he does come out with and handing a somewhat over-the-top scenario a level of realism you just don’t expect from this sort of film.

Add to that the sheer brutality of the violence and you realise this isn’t just another churned out Hollywood sequel, but something that’s actually had a lot of thought put into it by everyone involved, not least co-writer/director/star Stallone. He’s made the gunshots visceral and painful, the explosions truly horrific and the violence throughout turned up to a level so extreme it’s almost comical, until you stop to think that it’s more true to life than most Hollywood movies’ portrayals of death-by-gunshot or landmine.

It’s not the world’s greatest picture, it’s never going to contest any awards and it’s not the perfectly-weighted book-end to a saga that last year’s Rocky Balboa was, but it’s an extremely well-made, well-shot and well-put together little flick that entertains in all the ways it’s supposed to and offers up that little bit extra. An in it’s eschewing of the typical, OTT, CGI-heavy action of the more recent crop of action movies from the States, it may well serve as something of a reinvention of the action genre. We can only hope.

Today was, hands down, the longest and most tiring day I’ve had since my release, but seeing as it did a trip down to Guildford to visit C, my other Godson, it was completely magical.

I used to visit him quite often (at least every major school break), but gradually I slipped backwards as I became more unwell and my annual trips to his birthday parties in the summer came off the rails and I began to rely on his parents bringing him up to see me at my mum and dad’s, where they could handle the catering and things and I just had to focus on having enough energy to play board games with him all day and even that was often a stretch.

So it was an experience beyond comparison to be able to drive down today and catch up with him properly – take him out for lunch, explore some bits of Guildford and generally have a totally awesome day.

We were up at 8 and out of the house by 9 (no more 2 hours of treatments to clog up the morning), making our way mostly cross-country to the big G thanks to rubbishness on the M25.  K ably navigated us off the motorway and through the brilliantly named Egham which has some of the most sumptuous and gorgeous houses this side of Ascot.   Although it takes a little longer, K and I often prefer the country routes to the motorways for all the little gems you find along the way.

Bizarrely, as we slipped through the traffic into Guildford, K spotted on the pavement a friend of hers from school she hasn’t seen in 6 years.  Small world doesn’t even begin to cover it.  We managed to pull over to she could chase her down and catch up, before strolling on to C’s house just the other side of the town centre.

With everyone else either at school or work (his brother’s school had half-term the week before – parental nightmare or what), we had C all to ourselves, or rather he had us all to himself.  Or whichever way round works.  After a quick cuppa, made in brilliant team-work between me and C, we set off to find an indoor climbing centre where we had decided to try out C’s bravery and my new lungs.

Disappointingly, there was nothing on their website to tell us that pre-booking was a must, so we couldn’t actually climb, which came as something of a relief as the sheer size of the indoor walls (the full height of the industrial warehouse which housed the centre) made me slightly concerned that C’s bravery would entirely show me up.  Although, being a grown-up, I managed to artfully hide my near-panic at the potential mess I’d gotten myself into, I have to confess to feeling pretty much precisely the same emotions as were written all over C’s angst-ridden face as we stood and gawped at the men dangling precariously from the over-hangs.

We vowed to book ahead for the next break and to take it on together, however scared we may be.  We moved on, instead, to the Electric Theatre in the centre of town to the altogether more sedate but brilliantly enjoyable Doodle Wall.  Set up in one of their function rooms was a 6ft high wall of paper which ran the length of the room, on which anyone could come in and leave their mark in whatever fashion they liked.

It was a brilliantly simple concept, but brilliantly great fun.  Something we thought would be a quick 10-minute stop-over on the way to something more exciting turned into almost 40 minutes of intense, concentrated art-working and we all came away pretty chuffed with what we’d managed.  Being that I can’t draw to save my life, I instead chose to add a nice big block of colour to the wall.

Once we’d doodled ourselves out, we headed up to Jo Schmo’s – a restaurant of C’s choosing – which supplied me with the world’s biggest burger (since the one I had at the Burger Co in Carnaby Street), which I once again managed to demolish with my hands and by minorly dislocating my jaw in suitably snake-like fashion.

Hardly able to move post-burgers, we settled on spending the rest of the afternoon sharing turns on the Wii back home, including the new Lego Star Wars game which had both K and I bickering about who killed who and weren’t we supposed to be a team, much to C’s amusement.  Once his mum got home we then rocked a bit of Cluedo, which I managed to gmable on and lose spectacularly by trying to out-wit the other three and jumped the gun at hazarding and accusation.  I found myself much more suited to Wii bowling, in which I found my niche after being destroyed by Chris on both Golf and Tennis.  Lucky we didn’t do the Boxing or I’d have been even more humiliated.  By a 10-year-old.

After catching up with Mum, Dad and big bro once they all got back in, we eventually shuffled off about 7pm for the 2-hour drive home, again using up a mix of motorway and back-roads once our patience with stop-start M-way traffic wore too thin.

Arriving home at 9pm, we had just about enough energy to sack out in front of the TV and catch the recorded episode of the outstanding Extreme Dreams we’d missed that evening before kicking our keks off and jumping into bed.  I don’t think I’ve fallen asleep so quickly – or so early – for a long time, but when it follows a day like today, it’s not only very welcome, but sleep arrives with a wonderful wave of the most delightful contentment with life, the universe and everything.

Am I the only person in the world who’s immune to Amy Winehouse? Don’t give a chuff what’s going on in her personal life, couldn ‘t care less whether she takes one drugs, no drugs or enough cocaine to fill the Xscape’s snow slope, don’t wanna see pictures of her falling out of a nightclub off her head on whatever cocktail she’s been into next.

She’s got a pretty voice, yes, but when she sings live she just looks like she really needs a wee and it’s really off-putting. She’s on the Brits right now and I can’t bare to be in the same room – I’ve already sat through her desperate toilet-need alongside Mark Ronson, I can’t go through it all again for her solo…

Bring on the Oscars – at least there everyone goes to the toilet before they come on stage.

Today marked the biggest first in my new life since I took my deepest post-transplant breath off the ventilator – I joined a gym and began a programme of real, bona fide physical exercise.

It kind of feels like everything I’ve been doing since I escaped from the hospital has been gearing up for this moment. Finally getting into good physical shape, being fit and strong, has been one of the goals in my life that has always eluded me. For years I’ve wanted to get in shape and every time I’ve tried I’ve been stopped – either by physical resistance, lack of will power or full-on hospitalisation. In the end, the idea of achieving anything physically was about as far from my thoughts as anything, although it remained something I knew I’d strive for as soon as I got my transplant.

The induction today went brilliantly – the trainers at the gym are exceptional and really know their stuff. Not only had he spoken to my physios at Harefield to find out what I should and shouldn’t be doing and what sort of benchmarks I should be aiming for at this point, 13 weeks post-transplant, but he’d also been doing private reading into transplantation and fitness.

After a quick general once-over, including a grip-strength and flexibility test (proving I am officially the least flexible person in the entire world), we set off to do a quick circuit of the machines I’d be using. I’ve a detailed programme of cardio work to do for a couple of weeks, increasing steadily, before we think about adding in some resistance work to help build my muscles strength and tone (the vanity bit).

I’m doing a 5-minute cycle warm-up, followed by 5 minutes on the most evil invention in the world – the cross-trainer. I’ve never felt anything quite as horrible as the physical exhaustion that sets in so incredibly quickly when you’re pumping your arms and swirling your legs on some weird approximation of Nordic skiing. When I’ve recovered from that I’ve got 500m to row, followed by the main aim of the workout, the treadmill.

My short-term goal for my training is to be able to run a mile my April 13, when I hit Tresco to finish the marathon with my bro (sponsor me/us here). Our trainer at the gym thinks this is something I can build to and has set me on a build-up program on the treadmill. I walk for 2 minutes as a warm up, then aim to run/jog for a minute, take 2-3 minutes to recover at walking pace before another minute’s worth of jogging, then walk it off. The idea being that each time I go I can gradually decrease the rest/walk time between runs and increase the time I’m running until I can manage 10 minutes at a jog, which should – plus a little extra effort for a couple of minutes – see me over the finish line.

For those of you interested in following my progress up to the big day, I’ve kicked off a training-blog at trescomile.wordpress.com to keep track of my training and keep me honest – those of you with big sicks to wield will need to keep a close eye on how I’m doing. Unlike my slightly shabby updates on this blog, I hope to be disciplined enough to update the training blog after each session. (Chance’d be a fine thing…).

Today also saw the two of us catch up with an old friend and work colleague of K’s who’s celebrating her 21st tonight. Still not being able to properly put myself out and about in a busy pub of an evening, we decided to mark the event with a trip to Krispie Kreme and coffee at home instead.

The trip to KK served us well enough to take a tasty treat over to S&G in the evening, too, where we had a great natter and catch up with them both whilst introducing Suze to the delights of the glazed donut. Was great to catch up – we talked so much we didn’t even get chance to play a pay-back game of music Buzz that K was so desperate for, since I kicked her butt at movie Buzz the last time the four of us were together. But then, everyone knows I know nothing about music, so it’s hardly humiliating to get trounced. The bug embarrassment is losing movie Buzz to someone and since that someone last time was Gary, I made sure we weren’t going to be playing that again…