No wees, please! Running *in* London

With carbo loading, catching up with friends and a sleepless Saturday night in the Royal Borough undertaken, the 6am alarm on Sunday morning felt pretty hard.

Despite the recommendations of many experts, my breakfast was like Rihanna's wardrobe: only half done.  I had in fact remembered to bring along a plastic bag filled with a few handfuls of my familiar 'long run' usual of Swiss supermarket-brand chocolate muesli, but forgot to get any milk.  Instead, I crouched down on the bathroom floor (so that Love Chunks and Sapphire would not be woken up); hastily gulped down three 'protein balls' I'd sampled at the runner's expo the day before and washed the sticky scraps of lingering seeds down with a godawful sample of coconut 'water' flavoured with 'coffee.'  All was expunged with a half bottle of water and a nervous wee.

A shaky couple of selfies were taken - one by Sapph who did get up and insist on a 'full body shot.'  No slim greyhound, me, but my chunky trunks and Achilles bandages were about as ready as they'd ever be.  

A short tube ride to Simon's hotel - his lovely wife (and my friend) Gianna was in good spirits for us; I hid my nerves by goofing around and having ANOTHER wee. In their bathroom.

I'm the sort of person who immediately wants to know where the nearest toilets are: in cafes, on trains, at tourist spots, in friends' houses......  My friend Jill can attest to how many times she found herself waiting as I 'ducked in' for a wee during our travels.  The marathon map had been reviewed at length and it was quite literally a comfort to know that toilets were being provided at regular intervals throughout the route.

 

Simon's sister, Pauline (far left in the picture below), lives in Bermuda and was running in her TENTH marathon, this one as a 'training event' for the ultra triathlon she was doing later in the year. Her daughters Tor and Jessie (both doing their second marathon), were running for the same charity as me: Action Against Pre-Eclampsia.  Less than a year ago, Tor had suffered the condition when pregnant with her baby girl.

A tram ride to Kings Cross station on still-silent streets took us to the train that had been exclusively arranged for the 40,000+ marathoners.  The carriage we were in was lively with chat, jokes and the smell of liniment.  We sipped from water bottles, munched on energy bars and tried not to slide off the carpeted seats in our skin-tight lycra leggings.

Arriving at nine am, an hour before the start, was in no way being anal as the site itself was enormous. Dozens upon dozens of trucks were lined up, all neatly numbered for us to stow away our belongings until we saw them again past the finish line.  My belongings were mostly in my bum bag (hotel key, ipod, headphones, iphone, energy gels and a hanky), and my thoughts were also bum-related: The queue for the portaloos - at our four stations - were each a half a kilometre long.  I needed to stake my spot.  Immediately.

Best decision I ever made. Simon played his boy card and found a tree, but we gals nervously stretched our calves in the line, jiggled our thighs and noted how quickly the time was flying by.  Rolls of toilet paper were passed down the queue to avoid any dripping disappointment when in the portoloo pod itself.

The relief of making it into a surprisingly clean toilet and out just as the overhead PA instructed us all to get ready at the starting line - in the finishing time we estimated - was immense.

An enormous cheer erupted at 10am, but there was no discernible movement forward for us, standing next to the 'Five hour finish' flag.  I can only imagine how frustrating it must have been for runners twenty or more years ago knowing that time was ticking even though they had yet to cross the starting line.  All I could do was hope that I'd laced up my own magic individual timer chip to my shoelaces tight enough.

At 10:23am, we shuffled over the starting line.  Simon and Pauline were running alongside me; Pauline leading the way in dodging around the other runners.  There was no clear space to spread out so a lot of ducking and diving was required.

"Go Simon!"  

"Well done, Pauline, you're looking good!"  

Oh, so that's why everyone had their names written on their t-shirts: the crowds that packed every single centimetre of the route were reading them and yelling out encouragement.  Ah well, in my navy and black I'd just have to stay anonymous... "Go for it, blue cap!"  "You can do it, Cappy!"  Bless them: they had made up something to call me, and it was far better than Big Nose or Bubbling Buttocks....

"Bloody poms and their imperial measures," I panted to Pauline.  "Running miles takes FOREVER compared to kilometres!"  Each mile was marked by an arch of red balloons and my squinting eyes were always searching for the next one.  It was with an immense feeling of disappointment to see the beloved balloon display in the distance only to reach it and realise that it was for a charity cheering spot and not because another mile had been covered.

At the six mile mark (around 10km) it was time for me to take my first energy gel.  The plan was to not stop running at all during the event, but of course that was the moment for the zip to bust on my bum bag and my uncoordinatedly sweaty finger tips just could not rip open the top of the gel pack.  So, I stopped, calling out, "See you Simon and Pauline - run like the wind!" before using my teeth to rip the top off, suck down the cola-flavoured ooze, slug down a bit of water and push on again.

Not too much water slugging though.  My biggest fear was having to do a wee (or worse) during the event. "Sip little and sip often," was my mantra, especially when I discovered that the loos on the route now had lines of at least a hundred dejected-looking runners (or, in their case, non-runners) sadly but urgently waiting for their turn.

Love Chunks and Sapphire were part of the charity cheer squad on Tower Bridge at roughly the half-way mark.  However, with the road festooned with abandoned water bottles and surprisingly-deep and frequent pock marks in the bitumen, my efforts to spot them in the crowd were less than the ones to keep remaining upright and uninjured.  They were there somewhere though and I knew it.  Sickly sweet to say, but utterly true.  My heart beat loud and strong for them both on that famous landmark. 

My caution at not trying too hard to spot them in the crowd wasn't unfounded.  A young girl saw her mates in the crowd, whooped a greeting and made her way over to their side of the road to give them a high five when she trod on a water bottle and instantly pitched forward, smacking her face onto the gravel and burning her hands.  My gasp of sympathy was all I could do to help before first-aiders picked her up and carried her, now sobbing, to a chair.

The next ten miles were the cruellest of all.  No cheer squad for me ahead, still completing Mile Thirteen and yet could see the runners on the opposite side of the road returning from Canary Wharf and having the joy of seeing Mile Twenty Three and a glimpse of St Paul's in their (much swifter) sights.  Ah well, there was more plodding to do, each step stickier than the last due to thousands of empty gel packs covering every surface that the water bottles didn't.

After doing all of my training with music, the iPod and earphones stayed in the bum bag during the race.  It seems foolish to write the word 'race' because it wasn't.  It was a Challenge, a Day, an Event, but never a 'race.'  The only victory would be in finishing it.

The calls from the crowd; the music played by fans and bands in pubs, gardens, balconies and roundabouts; the hilarious signs made for friends and everyone ('26.2 miles. Because 26.3 would be stupid'), and the runners around me were all the entertainment and inspiration that I imagined.  And more.  "You are all sexy. You are all people I want to have sex with.  You are sexy runners and you will finish. Sexy sexy sex!" called out one bloke who ended up with a sore hand after receiving more than his share of high fives from laughing marathoners as they passed.

I overtook ten rhinos, one eight foot tall light house, several fairies, a twenty-strong team of ghurkas wearing 25kg packs and boots; a strawberry, the Gherkin building, a karoake singer who carried a cordless microphone and speaker stack as he ran; the armless Black Knight from The Holy Grail and the world record contender doubled over as he carried a Smeg fridge on his back.

I was overtaken by three other rhinos, a bagpipe player, half a dozen bananas and a gorilla.  Sapphire reported later that the poor Gherkin building smacked the top of his head several times on the red final timer screen at the finishing line before figuring out that he'd have to lean to the west and edge in that way.

Thankfully, the imperial measurement sticklers eased off at Twenty One Miles when markers for kilometres also appeared. Thirty Five Kilometres.  This was the longest I had ever run in my life and the calls for "Cappy! Go on Cappy!" and seeing the Millennium wheel on my left and Big Ben up in the distance changed my grimace to a smile.  It was still difficult to believe that I was there, doing it, in my favourite city in the world.  Chubby, daggy, chocolate-addicted old me.

My pace was distinctly slower in the second half than it had been in the first half.  It had been this way in all of my training runs too and was not something that was going to upset me or make me stop. My heart rate felt steady - no uncomfortable puffing, but my legs....!  Numb feet, shins with a pulse of their own and every bone below my waist seemingly on fire. 

Big Ben looked magnificent up close and to run up to him, along the back of the houses of Parliament on a road specially closed for me (okay, and 40,000+ others) was an incredible feeling.  Exhaustion and exhilaration blended into an emotion that is not possible to describe and may not be one that I'll ever experience again.  The faces of LC and Sapphire swirled in front of my burning eyes before my legs dragged me on to Birdcage walk, turning the corner and seeing Buckingham Palace looming up.  

And kept looming....  Was I on a treadmill?  Had the movie stopped running and I was at a standstill? Had I fainted.....?   It was here that they thankfully started counting down in two hundred metre stages....  1,000......  800 ......  600 ....... 400..... 200.....

       

Ducking and diving even as I passed over the line, I burst into tears.  Dry ones, as my face was encrusted in salt powder, but sobs engulfed me for a few moments as a volunteer deftly removed my timer chip and another one handed me a Finisher medal. 

It was a warm day, and this "Cappy" was finally grateful for having man-hands large enough to grip water and glucozade bottles the entire way; be able to smile at the kind comments from the crowds and - even more importantly - not faint like four other people did around her as they shuffled through St James' Yard to meet up with their loved ones. 

  

Four hours and fifty two minutes from start to finish.  Elite runners would have enjoyed their victory, had a long hot shower, completed a lengthy press conference, inhaled a banquet and had an hour long massage in that time but it was 'under five,' and good enough for me.

It was also the longest I'd ever gone - in waking hours - without a wee!   I cried again when LC and Sapphire were spotted.  Maybe it was a pointless and vain challenge, but they had been with me for every sweaty, sticky and slogging step of the way.

I am so thankful to them both.

Running to London....

It's amazing what an extra glass of wine will do to your ability to think sensibly at a dinner party.

We were at Simon and Gianna's place and had enjoyed lots of laughs, fantastic food, hilarious conversation and a few bottles of wine.  With our dogs snoozing under our feet and placing a deliciously-stinking cheese platter on the table, Simon said, "I've just got confirmation that I'm in for the London Marathon next year."

We - of course - drank to his health and willingness to run his FIFTH marathon in a decade. We drank again to his bravery and a third time to agreeing to meet him at the finish line in front of Liz and Phil's house at the end of the race. Following those three quick glassfuls, my brain had lost the ability to censor my mouth and I heard myself saying, "I'd like to run it too."

So, on the 5th of October last year, I decided that the best way to make a vague idea firm up into a public commitment was to post it on Facebook:

Kath Lockett

October 5, 2013 · 

This could rank up there with one of the dumbest things I've ever done (and it's a long list) but I've signed up to try to complete the London Marathon in April 2014. I'm aligned to a charity so that it not only benefits them but adds a big element of responsibility and risking public shame if I don't do my best - http://tinyurl.com/pcyttyn

Most of you know will know that I'm a plodding old treadmill runner who not only prefers the privacy of staying at home but also the vague attempts at keeping some of the cocoa-butter away from my thighs.  Sometimes, however, yearnings are harder to shove aside than a Lindor box, and this particular yearning to do a marathon was starting to become louder and more urgent. Youth had slid away long ago; family issues in Australia had been hurtful and disappointing; and working (mostly) from home meant that there was no excuse about not having the time to train.





















My little brother David - a marathon survivor and triathlon regular - gave me his timetable of runs, as did my best buddy Jill.  I also searched online to find other 'beginner marathon' lists, averaged them out and developed my own.  Maths, people. Not my favourite subject but useful when it comes to spreadsheets, diary planning and run scheduling.

Each run - the date and distance - was recorded in my little paper diary.  In green pen, so that it stood out among the blue and black appointments.  The aim was to have four entries in per week with the end total slowly increasing.  Every Sunday as I'd turn the page over, I'd (mostly) smile at the achievement.  




















Pointless? Possibly.  Vain? Definitely.  Lonely? Too bloody right!

As the treadmill moved from its locked-state of 6km slowly upwards, maths became even more important.  10.5 kilometres is one quarter of a marathon..... Fifteen kilometres is 5/14th of a marathon... How the hell would I be able to generate the stamina and willpower to run the remaining 9/14ths?  

Trust was key. My trust was placed entirely in the gathered wisdom of the all-holy running timetable, now reverently covered in a plastic slip to protect it from sweat stains.  Some easy runs, some scary long ones; some slightly shorter runs: all helped take the decision-making and potential for procrastination out of my hands. If the timetable had a particular number under a particular date, then that was all there was to it.

 

Music was vital.  Out on the roads, I'd never have anything clamped to my ears as it would be far too dangerous to not be able to hear oncoming traffic or the world around me.  But when I was staring at my bedroom wall from anywhere between 36 minutes and three-and-a-half hours, it was the songs that prevented my mind from convincing my body to stop and to instead stagger (and fart) along to the beat.

At any given time, there were three layers of blisters on various parts of my feet, but my toenails stayed on. This was NOT the case ten years earlier when I lost two of them during my one and only half-marathon attempt.  That was the same race that had me throwing up at the 15 kilometre mark and swearing never, ever to attempt anything further than a fun run every again......

By the time that half-marathon and twenty-something distances were reached before Christmas, the treadmill died.  It was still under a service agreement and was surprisingly (it's Switzerland, remember) affordable to get a new running belt and motor.  The mechanic was impressed: "It's not often we get a treadmill that's worn out before its warranty has ended."  My vanity level soared sky high until I realised that my stomach rolls were still very evident and still prone to unravelling each time I bent over to untie my shoes....

Despite my distaste and avoidance, it was time to do some 'street' runs.  These were more nerve-wracking than increasing the distances as I worried about looking and feeling vulnerable, uneven footpaths, crossing busy roads, dodging walkers, prams, snogging picnickers and the biggest dread of all - running uphill.

Love Chunks had a route that involved a nice run downhill towards the lake, then along the foreshore, through the park and up towards the Botanic Gardens.  

The horrific hill climb commenced as the track wound past the reindeer enclosure, making its presence more painfully felt when passing by the flamingos and spotting the rebel peacock strutting his stuff by the woodpile.

The hell increased many more times as I staggered my way past the World Meteorological Office to the UN headquarters, wheezing so loudly that tourists taking photos of the flags were given plenty of time to step aside and let the dying lady through.  

It was only eight kilometres back to home, but the height increased as it evilly turned left past the Korean embassy, along the side of the Hotel Intercontinental and a final nasty hill through Petit Saconnex before my stinging, sweat-filled eyes spotted our building in the distance.

We spent Christmas in New York and when booking I made sure that it had a treadmill that I could use....  The Caribbean cruise we went on after New Year's had an enormous gym and using a treadmill on lolling seas added an extra dimension of difficulty.

Love Chunks accompanied me on my first long street run.  He made an absolute mockery of my months of training when he not only ran his usual 8km, but then accompanied me on his bike for the second 8km and then ran the third 8km again on foot.  I was incredibly envious and more than a little insulted.  He was - and is - naturally fit and does ride his bike to work, jogs as often as he can and works out at the gym, but surely he should not have been able to bounce through a 24km session and still be able to cheerily chat to me with barely a wheeze throughout it all?  Cocky little git!

The week after, he was keen to do it again.  This time, he wasn't so lucky, pulling up with a very sore ankle after the second round.  I gulped my water and Gatorade and left for the third round.

"You could have waited for me," he sulked. "I was out there HELPING you."

It was my turn to flare up. "Nope, no way. I have worked my not-inconsiderable arse off for ages on my OWN doing this, and the training schedule is MY schedule. You either keep up or you don't."  I'd never be as fit or as thin or as fast as he was, but the plodding regularity meant that my joints and muscles were used to the distances and could handle it.  It was on that day - although not fun for either of us due to having that argument - that I knew I'd be able to do this.

My beloved running timetable worked and I managed four rounds of his 8km route on three separate occasions.  'Andrew' the peacock was less scared each time I passed by his hangout by the woodpile, progressing to standing in my way during the last lap.

Running 'in the thirties' is only recommended two or three times in marathon training, and even then, no more than 32km.  "Any longer than that and you're just trashing your body," Jill told me. 'Trashing' is a polite way of describing the bone-jarring, shattered feeling of knawing, clawing exhaustion that pounded in every cell of my body after those efforts. The entire day was given to running - and then recovering - from 'the thirties' that resulted in the sweat drying on my face and turning into finely powdered salt to moaning in the bath and wondering just how I was going to lift myself out of it.

Carbo loading used to be a week-long phenomenon back in the 1980s, but these days it is only recommended as a mere three day fest.  Despite this, it was particularly enjoyable to inhale spag bol for dinner on Thursday, leftovers for Friday lunch and bread/fondue entree followed by steak and chips for dinner.  

Apart from the off-putting sounds of my greedy eating, the week leading up to the marathon was a quiet one - only two x 3km runs.  On the other hand, the sweat levels were as high as any of the longer, harder runs.

My heart rate had reached 172-180 BPM and didn't go much lower in the week leading up to my flight to London when I wasn't running.  This was making me more nervous than my wedding day.....

Two meanings of 'tear'

"That's not what I meant and you know it!"

"Oh do I? So I have to be a mind reader now too....?"

Her only answer was to slam the car door shut and stride off. As I muttered, 'grumpy cow,' to the steering wheel there was little doubt that she was doing the same into her jacket.

Finishing off my coffee before going for a run, the computer is always a lure, asking me to check on it before sweating it out in the room next door. C's facebook status is brief. "Single again."  Love Chunks and I sigh in sympathy and disappointment.  C is a single mother who has literally been on her own for a decade working full time, paying off a mortgage and caring for a son with a unique set of challenges that the father refuses to see.  If anyone needs some pampering and romance, it is her.  We both write separate messages and sign them off with the usual ineffective wish to provide a hug or two via cyberspace and across the hemispheres.

Tara's status is much lengthier, a written message in response to my carelessly typed, "Are you okay?"  Not really.  Her partner is now refusing to take the medication needed to manage a significant mental health issue leaving Tara to deal with unpredictable rages, unaffordable spending sprees, unheard of debts suddenly coming to light, undeserved accusations and uncomfortable living arrangements.  

In the car, my phone vibrates. "I hope you are all well and enjoying the snow, but I have some really bad news that I need to tell you......"  Darling Dale, IT guru, laid-back buddy, volleyball queen and world traveller has been given the unenviable task of contacting all of J's university friends and telling us that cancer claimed her.  "But she wrote to me in January wondering if she should return to work full time or take it easy and pick up her painting again," is my tapped response, no time for refinement or spell check.

Back home, Love Chunks is now bent over his knees, clutching a blue esky ice block wrapped in a tea towel to his torn calf muscle. "Good thing I injured myself on the very last ski run of the day," he said, grimacing.

"I'll try the doctor again. Hopefully the receptionist answers this time because their message service is all in French."  Milly sighs loudly and smooshes her face against the side of her bed, signalling very clearly her disappointment at the rain that prevents us from going out for a walk.

Appointment made for 2:45pm, I make LC something to eat and tram it into the city to book our train tickets for Italy in the summer. "No, sorry. They won't accept bookings that are 120 days before the departure date.  Best come back on 11th April to get all your travel details sorted out."  I try not to peel the skin around my thumbnail but do it anyway, feeling the sting of exposed flesh and blood beginning to flow.  Accommodation is already becoming scarce for one of the world's most popular tourism destinations, but to take the chance of finding somewhere to sleep and then have no way of getting there on time.  The hem of my jacket is used to press against the nail and stem the bloodflow.... I smile and thank the ticket lady for her help.

Back at home, LC is on the phone to M, J's husband.  He told LC that J went downhill very rapidly before having a stroke and being placed into palliative care.  M was in turn both prepared for her death and completely unprepared.  She was only forty five, with three kids aged eighteen, sixteen and fourteen.  M once told me how they met. "I saw her across the room giving some other bloke a really good telling off. I thought to myself, 'that girl's got fire in her,' and went over to divert her attention." That was in 1986.

LC's eyes fill with tears after he farewells his old friend. We hug and I tell him of my small moment with Sapphire earlier this morning. He shows me his calf which is twice the size of his other one.

There's leftovers for lunch and the final episode of Derek.  I've already seen it with Sapphire and we both ended up sobbing.  The biggest message is the one that everyone - no matter what their faults - see and value in Derek, the assistant at a nursing home who has his own problems to deal with.  Kindness.  Just be kind, that's all.


















I send a text to Sapphire, apologising for my bad temper this morning.  Love Chunks gets a Kath-made coffee that nowhere near reaches his own standard of DeLonghi delight, but he's grateful for it anyway.  Milly skips when we take the lift downstairs and she sees the cleaning lady and rushes to greet her by giving her slippers a lick.  The sun has some warmth in it now and Milly is happy to sniff the green stems of the crocus flowers emerging from the mud.

After doing some laundry and mopping the floors, two hours is spent printing out a document for one of my students page by page, thanks to an ancient CD-rom format that is still the preferred study method at his school.  Sapphire arrives home from school, dashing past the study to get into her room.  "Thanks for the book, Mum!' she calls out cheerfully.  I sit at the desk, wondering whether to leave her alone as she's in her her haven; her fortress of solitude, or whether to barge on in and give her a hug.

Barging in won out.

Putta putta putta PARP!

Regular readers will know that I fart (often) and ain't afraid to admit it.

The relief of being open about this might be a reaction to the first twenty years of my life when my brothers remained quite convinced that girls (or, at the very least, their sister), never ever needed to pass wind.  To counteract this belief, they would regularly take gleeful pleasure in 'performing' a few right in my face in order to remind me that such a bodily function existed.  Both brothers would be out of the door and way out of dead-leg range before I could struggle to my feet from my half-lying stance in the beanbag.

By age twenty five I had found Love Chunks, we were newly engaged and thrilled to rent our first place together; a shocker of a 1960's flat with cement brick walls, pond scum carpet and a head-sized hole in the bathroom.  His illusions as to my fart-free status were shattered in minutes after mock chasing me into the living room in an attempt to 'dack' me.

To non-Aussies, a 'dacking' usually involves:
a) cleverly spotting that your victim (the 'dackee') is wearing a skirt, pair of trousers or shorts with an elastic waistband;
b) noting that the dackee is in a relaxed state and easy to tackle; and
c) seizing the chance to run up, dive into a rugby pose and PULL DOWN THEIR PANTS in a nanosecond, all the while hoping that their undies stay up.

Love Chunks was in the midst of this manoeuvre when my defence mechanism - for so many years kept hidden - went into full defence mode.  Putta putta putta PARP PARP PARP!  For a moment afterwards, we both froze. I was half bent over, in shock and embarrassment at the enormous fart that had emerged; LC was just in shock.  "Bah hah hah hah hah...!" he went, doubling over himself, before wisely deciding to stand upright again and wildly open the door to and fro in an effort to get some fresh air into the room.

That occasion, with its total lack of dignity, freed me up to let it out and be proud. In the ladies' toilets at several work places, I'd be aware of women in the other stalls doing their best to whizz silently against the bowl, or cough when a Tony Abbott or two was about to drop.  "Hey there!  We're all in here for the same reason - drops and plops - so why bother hiding it?"

And thus, with the nineties and noughties long behind me and the teens continuing, my rowdy rear end continues to seek the limelight, whether it's wanted or not.

With Sapphire away in the UK for the weekend with her friends, LC and I took the opportunity to go skiing with two other couples in nearby La Clusaz, France.  Now, LC is utterly hooked on this hurtling down icy sixty-degree-angle mountain sides on skinny planks malarkey whereas for me it is rewarding and occasionally exhilarating but always terrifying.  As such, he's lining up for the lifts as soon as they open and has to be pushed off by the snow plow drivers at dusk but I'm ready to quit at lunchtime and have a nanna nap/spa/shower/inhale chocolate/read magazines in our room.

Luckily for me, Slimey's wife Gianna is of a similar disposition.  We'd done a full morning and my legs were no longer listening to my commands, preferring instead to point in the direction of the chairlift back into town.  At one stage they'd buckled underneath me and I found myself on my stomach and legs spread rather unflatteringly in both directions. All I need was someone to draw a circle around my fallen figure in the snow and a human Peace Sign would be evident.

Time to call it a day.  LC and I had already checked out of our room after breakfast, but Gianna and Slimey were there for another night. "No problem, Kath. Get changed in our room and use Slimey's towel - he won't mind."

Now, I've only known Gianna for two years but already love, trust, admire and enjoy her company immensely. We'd shared many stories and adventures together and I always looked forward to seeing her when she was in Geneva. Getting changed in front of her was a new level of intimacy for sure, but not one that phased me. 

It was what occurred in her bathroom a minute later that had me in an anxious sweat.  

Putta putta putta PARP PARP PARP!  Yep, my ginormous glutes decided to emit their version of a loud gaseous staccato roar that swept out of the bowl, across the tiles, out the door and through the alpine valley causing trees to quiver and drop their icicles onto the slopes, creating avalanches that swept down into the township below.  

As with Love Chunks' first experience of my articulate arse, there was a silence from the other side of the bathroom door.  It was me who broke it. "Er, I'm guessing that staying in a wooden chalet hotel means that you heard everything my 'tocks just tooted...?"

Sniggering was all the answer I needed. "I'm married to Slimey," she managed between gasps, "but I'm not entirely sure that he didn't also hear it up there on the red run."  

"Don't worry, I'd already taken his bathrobe off...."

There really is no going back after farting in front of a friend.

When we arrived home last night and downloaded our photos, this one seemed eerily appropriate.  Camera angle or honest truth, it was a blessing that no-one sat on my right hand side.

Bonza blogger River from Drifting Through Life has carried on the Sunday Selections tradition of sorting through photos yet to be seen on your blog, posting 'em up and explaining why.

Being very new to the world of smartphones, I've had a ball taking snaps of anything and everything that takes my fancy. No worrying about lugging around the heavy SLR in a big black bag that screams, "I'm a tourist! Come pick my pockets" or the smaller digital version that Love Chunks insists is his and his alone. "Where is MY camera, the one that *I* bought?"

To be fair, though, these have mostly all been placed on Facebook and it's very easy to click the link, add a line (a slight challenge with my man-sized fingers that end up pressing 'ASD' instead of 's') and posting it up.

A 'selfie' taken slurping coffee on our balcony during a blizzard. My cup was topped with snow by the time I took a picture that was acceptable to share with anyone, so try and imagine those that were rejected.

Milly in front of at least twenty discarded Christmas trees, left by the big bins near our apartment.  Silly season was well and truly over.

On the Number 22 bus to the UN stop. I tend to select the double seats near the 'accordian' divider of the bus so that Milly has space to sit but she is terrified of the moving circular floor, undulating folded curtains and how it bends......
















......and usually, therefore, ends up cowering under the seat.  This maneouvre provides an additional bonus in that fellow travellers feel sorry for her and she ends up receiving loads of pats, coo-ed endearments (in French) and ear ruffles.

















Milly's nemesis: a fellow apartment-dweller, the Tabby Cat.  She enjoys sitting on the heaters in the lobby on cold days and the vantage point gives her plenty of notice to escape when Milly eventually spots her.  The cat watches as my darling dog's paws skitter on the marble floor before she ends up slamming into the glass.  She eventually recovers her poise only to see puss out in the garden looking disdainfully triumphant.

She can only be photographed (and petted) up close by me when Milly's not around.  On warmer days she perches in the enormous flower beds, waits for Milly to see her and automatically jump up in response only to have her nose swiped at by the cat before she shoots off.  It is only when Milly smells squirrels in the trees that she ignores the cat.

Milly with her sleepover buddy, Alfie the chocolate lab. Milly is NOT nice to other dogs; making it very clear that she'd prefer a world where she is the only canine and all homosapiens adore just her, but she's slowly getting used to seeing Alfie. He is the perfect host and when she visits him at his abode, he trots over with a toy in his mouth to offer her.

She snaps at him - "Don't YOU be taking liberties with ME!" and he wanders off with a "Whatever, lady," response to the other side of the living room.  Eventually Milly climbs down from her high horse, gives his butt a careful sniff and they're friends again.  Alfie is a patient and true gentleman.

Two friends found in the park that Milly can tolerate. 

Sometimes, our dog does have cruelty inflicted upon her.  Forced to wear a bra whilst enduring Sapphire's and my ridiculous laughter is not fun.

Then again, being my 'secretary' during freelance writing gigs isn't too bad.

G-strings, doggie winter coat version.

Rebel dog. When we first moved here, I saw the red circles with dogs in them and thought, "Wah hey, they welcome dogs here - a garden just for them!"  Fratman the concierge soon set me straight. Red circles don't have to have a line through them to mean 'no.'  It is with great thankfulness that Milly has a section of the garden filled with trees, bushes and lively squirrels where she is allowed to whizz and play.

Sapphire likes taking 'anti-selfies', partly to make fun of various FB 'friends' that take photos of themselves at their very, very best and caption them with 'I'm so ugly,' the universally-recognised plea for compliments or the 'Look at the snow outside' pose when the majority of the screen is filled with their figure artfully on show to display everything at its best.  

"But surely, Sapph, sometimes you could put a photo up that shows you looking, if not show-offy, at least a bit normal?"

She then gave me a lesson in how the Show Offy Gals do it: tilt the phone so that the eyes become enormous:

Ah. Imagine her halfway in between.

Sometimes, a purchase just has to be made, despite much eye-rolling from Love Chunks.

A Swiss marmot, ready to hike in the snow, on a bottle of wine.  Three euros.  And yes, I will drink it.

And, drum roll please for the phinal phone photo:

WHO made the yellow snow?
Milly did!