Archives: Friends

… I was flat on my back in intensive care having just had my rubbish old blowers swapped out for a pair of shiney new ones.  And what a corking pair they’ve turned out to be, too.  Already I’m off galavanting around the country meeting new people, doing new things, catching up on the life I missed out on for most of the last 12 months and more before my op.

I’m reminded today of how special a gift my new lungs are – and just how lucky I am – by the simple horrible day a dear friend of mine has had.  A CF-sufferer like me, she’s been on the Tx list quite a while now (rather embarrassingly I don’t know how long), but last night she got the call she’d been waiting for.  After the usual battery of tests, they sent her down to theatre and put her under.  They even got as far as beginning the surgery.  And then something – no one knows quite what – happened with the new lungs and the whole thing was called off.

Now, I had my fair share of false alarms in my time on the list, but this goes WAY beyond anything I evere had to deal with.  There’s disappointment and then there’s this – it’s so far beyond anything I can imagine I can’t even find the right word to describe it.  I feel devastated and it’s not even me it’s happened to.  So for those of you who are so inclined, Scotland could do with some of your happy thoughts right now.

As for me, well I seem to be generating my own happy thoughts for the time being.  So busy have I been in generating the happy thoughts, I’m now being berated on all sides for the lack of updates on the blog.  I have to admit, rather sheepishly, that I hadn’t even realised it had been a full week since my last update.

So I’m now going to diligently recount the last few days for all those curious people out there – keep your eyes on the earlier dates for the week (yes, I can back-date my entries – a fact which appears to have eluded some of my fair readers over the last couple of weeks…) to see what I was getting up to, which will form some sort of very lame defence of my lack of bloggage.

Thoughts and prayers to Scotland, please – Heaven knows she needs them.

With tremendous excitement, K and I load up the car and head back Northwards to Durham for the second time in a month. Bizarrely, as we arrive off the A1(M) and head into town under the Castle and Cathedral, artistically lit and welcoming, it feels like coming home. Odd that you can get that feeling on just your second trip, but there you go. If it weren’t for K and uni, I get the feeling we’d already be house-hunting.

The day started on a more mundane level, with K heading off to work, me getting through a chunk of email stuff from the weekend which was demanding my attention and then managing to scoot off to the gym, know it’s pretty unlikely I’ll see it again till Thursday.

I come home and rest up after my work-out, getting in an hour’s nap before grabbing some lunch, tidying the flat a little, then heading off to pick up K from work and start the journey upwards.

We get on surprisingly well on the trip, managing it door-to-door in about 4-and-a-half hours, which includes a stop on the motorway and minor detour through Durham, plus un petit hiccup finding our final destination.

Said destination was the house of Dr Stephen Cronin, a – frankly – complete madman who’s taking on the Everest Marathon at the end of May along with a team of friends including a runner who suffers from CF.

The house – and family – are both gorgeous and delightful, even if the former is somewhat overrun with preparations for tomorrow’s lunch for the ladies of Durham at which I am to talk and try to increase the sponsorship coffers of the Tenzing-Hilary Marathon team.

The Tenzing-Hilary Marathon is bonkers. Also known as the Everest Marathon it does exactly what it says on the tin – you walk/hike/trek for 12 days to Everest Base Camp and then – because clearly there’s nothing better to do – you run 26.2miles back down the slopes you’ve just come at an altitude which roughly halves the amount of oxygen in the atmosphere. You’d have to be crazy to even think about attempting it, let alone fill in the application form, so I’m bowled over by the fact that Stephen appears – at least at first sight – to be completely sane, a minor penchant for running silly distances not withstanding.

It says something for the family, though, that their eldest son, Alex, has accompanied his dad on all of his 4 marathons so far and is gutted – yes, really, honest-to-God disappointed – not to be able to do this one too, wrapped up as he will be in exams.

Still training doesn’t appear to be so hardcore at the moment that Stephen can’t kick back a little bit and we were treated to a lovely Chinese take-away not long after our arrival, which is always a sure-fire way to win me over.

Shattered from the journey and mindful of the big day ahead tomorrow, we retire early to our accommodation on-site at their Coach House guest house across the courtyard. (Yes, their house is big enough for a courtyard…). For anyone even thinking about visiting Durham, this is undoubtedly the place to stay. I have no second-thoughts about a large and blatant plug for the place here, as it is one of the nicest places I’ve ever stayed in and so wonderfully close to the centre of Durham by car, too. Click here to check it out.

We’re hugely lucky to be given our bed, bathroom, kitchen and sofa gratis and even get a lovely little welcome pack of breakfast bits-and-bobs to see us through. The attention to detail is amazing and K and I spend at least 15 minutes exchanging “oooh, look”s at each other as we find something new and cool.

The place fully explored and long, hot, travel-cleansing shower taken, we hit the sack and attempt to get in a good night’s rest before tomorrow’s event.

That’s what I reckon, so I didn’t go to the gym today.

I’m not skiving, honest, just being careful of my leg and not wanting to work it too hard (click here for more on the Calf of Death – not bovine related).

K, however did go, and now has a nice and shiney new programme of weights workout to add to her regular C-V workout, which is lovely for her. And energetic. It’s my turn to ramp up the weights next, so I’ll be booking myself in when I go for my session tomorrow.

Apart from taking K to the gym, today I actually managed to get a lot of work done, which has made a change. I don’t know quite why, but Durham totally upset the balance of everything as far as work and projects were concerned – I was away for all of 4 days and it’s taken me 7 to catch back up. Weird.

This morning was delightful, though, as I ran K down to Lea’s house to get her hair snipped, which meant I got to spend the morning playing with her delightful little one. I’m trying to ignore the fact that I had to break my self-imposed vow never to watch and/or read and/or know anything about Igglepiggle by reading “All Aboard The Ninky Nonk” a total of 17 times. She liked it, which is the main thing. Me? I still don’t really understand it. Although I think the Tombliboos have something to do with the small personification of evil – that may be reading too much between the lines, though.

Yesterday was equally grand – spending time with our littlest niece and nephew for the little lady’s 3rd birthday. It was amazing to see their little faces light up when we got there and then I spent an hour of the afternoon reading/playing “Where’s My Pants”, which luckily is the book we bought her and not a genuine, house-searching game.

At one point, having to make a quick phone call, I escaped to the top of the stairs to grab myself 5 minutes, only to be spotted and joined, perched on the top step, by both of the littl’uns who proceeded to sit silently by my side while I finished my conversation. Cute isn’t the word. It’s much… well, cuter…

I also had a meeting yesterday with a filmmaker from MK who’s interested in collaborating on a few things. I’ve been looking for people interested in filmmaking around MK to work with on some short film projects to get me back in the groove to work up towards shooting something bigger, but have mostly drawn blanks. Now, happily enough, I’ve made contact with a few people and after this meeting yesterday, I’m hopeful that there’s more guys out there than I first thought.

The thing about filmmaking – and all work in the arts, really – is that it’s so much about the contacts you have and the people you can work with. Part of the reason I’ve had so much fun and success in the Theatre has been thanks to the place I worked enabling me to meet like-minded people and also set-up my partnership with Suze, which is ever-fruitful and enjoyable on so many different levels.

I still keep catching myself and realising just how amazing life is now – I’m still not taking any of it for granted and the most mundane things can get me grinning like and idiot at the fact I’m able to do them. And now to be talking about new projects and planning possibilities is so exciting and gives me so much drive and determination to succeed.

NOTE: for the unobservant among you, the Durham trip has been detailed in back-dated entries for the weekend in question.  They’ve been up about 4 or 5 days now, barring the last day’s worth of notes, which are imminent, I promise….

Up far too early this morning to get off to Harefield for my first trip there in a month. Slipped into clinic still dripping from the torrent of water being unleashed from the heavens in the short walk between the car park and the main building, to be greeted by a very quiet scene after an apparently large number of cancellations. All the better for me, though, because the fewer people in clinic the earlier I get away.

Went through all the usual rigmarole and emerged the other side pretty much unscathed – weight’s up a kilo, SATs looking pretty stable, temperature good, lung function moving up smoothly.

K had the day off work, so took it upon herself to take us both shopping in Watford thanks to our 3-hour hiatus afford by the usual clinic practices of waiting for results before seeing the docs. Somehow, we managed to walk the entire length and breadth of the Harlequin Centre in the middle of Watford (albeit mostly looking for food) and come away without spending any money whatsoever and a brand new Blackberry Curve for me. I was impressed.

Proceeded to return to H-base and got into see the great MC pretty snappily. He was perfectly happy with my progress, which was something of a relief as last time I’d seen him he was mildly concerned about my slight plateau in lung-function and indicated that if it didn’t improve I’d have to go back in for another Bronch et al. My issue was I didn’t know how much he wanted it to have improved by in order to skip that part of the plan. Turns out, it just needed to be going steadily the right way, which indeed it was. More than that, some of the more obscure numbers (rather than the simple FEV1/FVC numbers we are given) had apprently jumped further than he’d have looked for. So win-win really.

Also managed to catch up with Emily briefly after we missed each other in the morning thanks to her having a bit of an “off” moment. Really weirdly, having not seen each other for months and months and months (since I was in hospital after my initial op), we’re now down to see each other twice in a week as we have a Trustees meeting for Live Life Then Give Life on Friday. Funny how the world works.

Managed to escape Harefield by just after 3, which had us home and dry by 5 after a brief Tesco-and-petrol detour on the way back. After half-an-hour or so of sitting doing nothing, itchy feet took over and we settled on a night out at the flicks to catch The Other Boleyn Girl.

Although on the surface – and in large parts – it’s a very ordinary (if star-studded) costume-drama/book adaptation covering the lives and loves (well, love – Henry VIII) of both Anne and the lesser-known Mary Boleyn, there are moments of brilliance smattered throughout.

It’s testament to the two leading ladies, Natalie Portman as the Queen-to-be-beheaded and Scarlett Johansson as her younger, less fortunate(!) sister, that one still feels fairly hefty pangs of emotion at the denoument that you’re well aware of before the film even starts.

In the hands of a lesser pairing, Anne’s betrayal of her sister and her semi-sadistic schemeing to win the heart of the King and the throne she believes to be her right would be too much for an audience to forgive. And while I can’t say I went the whole hog to total forgiveness, to imbue such an innately unsympathetic character with enough humanity to carry such weight on her death is remarkable. But it’s not solely down to Portman’s work – without Johansson’s pain, anguish and subsequent forgiveness and the enormous risks taken at the end being wrote so large and ingrained so deeply within her performance, the audience wouldn’t be allowed the access to the emotions we’re lead to feel.

It’s not a flawless film, by any means – there’s a few stilted performances and even some of the big guns involved take a while to hit their stride, but it deals deftly with the passage of time and there are some emotional beats within the story that the film nails as perfectly as any movie I’ve seen this year. Worth a look if historical and/or costume dramas are your kind of thing – not one to be immediately dismissed if they’re not.

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?

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.