The Finishing Line

It seems hard to believe that nearly two weeks have elapsed and I’ve only just regained my breath, and indeed my wits, to put digit to keyboard.

After several months of complaining that it’s all too difficult and my feet hurt the moment of truth had finally arrived. The day of the Great Eastern Fun Run. In front of me was 4 kilometres (2.5 miles in old money) of chafing and sweat.

So there I was a week last Sunday, up at an unfortunate time of the morning for the so-called day of rest, although the Japanese Grand Prix was on so I had some entertainment to take my mind off things, pondering what I was going to eat. In the day or so leading up to the race this had become a pressing issue for me. Should I eat porridge or poached eggs on wholegrain toast? How, for that matter, do I poach an egg? I normally fry or boil them. In the end, the present Mrs Hayward suggested I just eat what I normally would so I decided upon a couple of slices of toast (plus some peanut butter I found in the cupboard) and a banana. To be fair I didn’t need the banana. 

Fuelled on this cocktail of peanuts and phallic shaped fruit I left the house with Mrs Hayward and my father-in-law in tow for support. Mother-in-law was indisposed with a stinking cold so she was let off. 

I have to say that taking my father-in-law was a risk. The man is just about to turn 65 but is probably fitter than I am by quite some margin. He’s always on the go and when Mrs Hayward did the Race for Life a few years ago he found her on the course and then ran ahead of her at some speed so he could see her cross the finish line. She was most embarrassed that her father who is some 30 years her senior was showing her up with his surprising fleet of foot.

I have to say that, somewhat surprisingly, it didn’t feel weird being stood in Cathedral Square surrounded by people in shorts and fancy dress, after all I go to the Peterborough Beer Festival every year and there’s some rather bold fashion statements made there, although there are many pints of fine real ale on hand to numb the senses. 

It wasn’t even that weird when former Olympic athlete Sally Gunnell wandered past me. When it properly got weird was the moment I found myself about two rows from the front at the start line. Well, I got bored with the whole warm up thing the DJs from BBC Radio Cambridgeshire (bless their cotton socks) were trying to get us to do in Cathedral Square and they were generating far too much whooping and excitement when I was more concerned that the banana I’d recently ate was going to make a dramatic reappearance during the race.

Funnily enough my friend who was attending in her St John Ambulance role later told me that the majority of cases heading her way were not sprained ankles or broken legs but people incessantly vomiting. Oh and there were a couple of runners who should have stopped and done a ‘Paula Radcliffe’ by the side of the road but instead kept going, which is just dirty.

I stood on the road, watching the time tick down and it was all a bit of a blur from there. There were kids jostling around me, a blue dragon thing was on the podium to my right, followed by a woman dressed as a fairy (something to do with a local charity) and then, bang! The start gun went and we were off. 

I had decided before I got there that I was not going to be out of the traps like a Greyhound or else it would be all over for me before I even got to 100 metres. This was the case for a lot of the excitable kids around me who didn’t get very far at all, including the ginger chubby one that had barged past me. Maybe that was just my reflection; it was hard to tell in the mêlée.

My main objective from thereon was just to keep going. I found it useful to identify a fellow athlete in front of me who was going a pace I liked and stick with them, until they either stopped or sped off into the distance. In the end I followed a guy in an NSPCC top who was doing a reasonable pace and was with him until near the end.

My concern had been that I would be overtaken by someone dressed in some sort of animal costume and these concerns were well founded. At the 2 kilometre mark I was overtaken by two guys dressed as parrots. To be fair to them they must have been fit as they were not showing any signs of being hampered by wearing a heavy felt costume. They were part of a group who were running as part of a pirate theme. I met the Head Pirate himself just before the end and he told me he regretted that he’d worn a hat to run in. I was impressed that a) he was running at all and b) that either of us could speak at this point.

Fuelled by a heady mix of adrenaline and peanut butter I kept going and going and going until suddenly I could hear the sound of the tannoy at the finish line. This was the first time my legs started to tell me that they thought we’d had enough, but my brain fired off a terse memo that read ‘Keep going you fools’.

Before I knew it the end was in sight as well as sound and even though by that point I’d just run 3.80 kilometres the last few metres seemed the longest. It didn’t help that the run up to the finishing line takes you off the firm concrete path and on to the undulating terrain of the Embankment but I managed to avoid any embarrassing trips or falls, and as I crossed the line I heard the tannoy announcing the safe return of “…number 57, Terry Hayward…” and I knew it was all over.

I quickly got ushered through a marquee, stripped of the timing chip attached by Velcro to my ankle and handed a cloth bag (which I initially thought was an apron, but having never done anything like this before I didn’t express surprise), some water which was well received, a medal, and a banana. My stomach sent a memo this time to say that quite frankly it had seen enough of bananas for one day so I put it out of sight in the bag.

I was met outside the finishing zone by Mrs Hayward and my father-in-law who hadn’t got down to the finish in time to see me triumphantly cross the finish line and so we consulted our watches. It wasn’t even half ten so I knew that I must have got round relatively quickly for me. 

As it turned out I ran it in 24 minutes and 40 seconds. This will serve me in good stead the next time I go out for a drink with my good friend Ned and he suggests we go to another pub some 2.5 miles away with half an hour to go before closing because it has a rare ale on that we have to try. Trust me, this is not an unlikely scenario.

And so, before I knew it, it was all over and I was off, medal around my neck, heading back to the car. My moment of glory was over. 

When I returned home I had a bath. This is not normal for me. I don’t really like having a bath; I’m more of a shower man. I feel uncomfortable in a bath and usually just sit bolt upright looking quite uncomfortable. However it felt like the right thing to do and so I found myself slipping into the bubbles (come on, I had to have bubbles, do they still sell Mr Matey?) and relaxed.

So, that is one of my New Years Resolutions done. Ticked off. Completed. Oh, and thanks to some very generous people (you know who you are) I raised £423.00 for The Stroke Association. Me and my tired legs say thank you.

It has inspired me to do something else next year. I keep being asked if I’m going to do a half marathon, or a full marathon, or even the Olympics, but I’m wondering whether it’s time to hang up my trainers and just run for fun.

After all, there’s so much else I could do. I’ve never abseiled, or bungee jumped, or walked over hot coals, or climbed a mountain, or jumped out of a plane, or chased some cheese down a hill…..

The mid-life crisis continues.

Final Thoughts

I remember back at the beginning of April I went for a run. It was early days and I was just starting to build up on the distance I could run before my chest felt as if it was about to explode over the pavement. Whilst at the time I was impressed that I was improving, I also had concerns about whether I’d ever have the level of fitness to make it to the required 4K.

I wasn’t too worried at the time though as I knew it was a good six months away. In fact October seemed so far away that it may as well have been another country. Not a distant country like Australia. It was more sort of Northern France. So now, here I am, stood on the passenger deck of the ferry, with Calais in sight, hardly believing that it’s come around so soon.

Am I ready? I guess so. On a good day I can run 4K. Not necessarily with ease but then, as the present Mrs Hayward once told me, if it was easy everyone would be doing it. What it has done is to give me great admiration for those who run marathons, or even half marathons. I have friends who can do this, some even combine it with swimming and cycling although not necessarily at the same time, and this is impressive when I consider that on a bad day I struggle to run at all. Curse my weak shins.

Sunday will be very surreal though, not least as there will be other people around me who are also running, and some others just staring at me.  I believe the latter group are called spectators. When I’m out and about in Bourne I tend to speed up when I see an actual person so I have no idea how I’ll react at running in the presence of so many people. Perhaps I’ll get around the course in record time but I’m not holding out much hope. 

My main ambition is to finish without prematurely expiring during the race. According to a friend who will be working at the event on behalf of the St John Ambulance, three runners died during last year’s event. This makes the whole thing seem much more dangerous. Perhaps there are minefields or crocodiles en route that I was hitherto unaware of. I’ll let you know afterwards, if I still have my arms.

Either way, there’s no going back now, and no matter how surreal it will seem at 10am on Sunday morning, with a number on my chest and a chip around my ankle to record my time, I know at least that any pain or embarrassment is for a good cause.

The last time I did anything for charity I had my legs waxed, again this was another idea that seemed good at the time after a few beers in the pub. That, if I remember rightly, was for Comic Relief. This time, when I decided to enter the race, I decided to do it for The Stroke Association.

It’s hard to pick a charity to support as each cause can touch a person in one way or another. Normally I would have picked one of the many good cancer charities as that hateful disease has affected so many of my close family and friends. However I had The Stroke Association suggested to me by Mrs Hayward and I’m glad that she did.

My nan had a stroke many years ago. Prior to that she was so fit and active that she put us all very much to shame. She lived for another six years after her stroke but she was never able to walk again and spent the last few years of her life in a rest home, and I know that she was intensely frustrated at her lack of mobility.

Last summer my mum suffered a stroke. For me it was the first time I realised that she was unwell. I don’t think I’m speaking out of turn to say that my mum could have a tendency to be a little bit of a hypochondriac. I used to joke with her that she had a season ticket with the doctor’s surgery as, even when I was little, she seemed to have an appointment most weeks about something or other. 

So when she used to tell me about her various medical complaints I, like a lot of people who knew her,  probably took it with a pinch of salt as that was just who she was. In the past nothing serious had ever come of these things.

After the stroke she became frail and visibly started to look much older. Before and after the main stroke that saw her hospitalised for a few weeks in June she suffered a number of ‘blackouts’ or ‘mini-strokes’ as the doctor called them. 

On reflection it came as no surprise when she had another heart related episode a few months later. However this time her heart stopped for a number of minutes and despite the ambulance crew resuscitating her and a few days spent in intensive care it was clear to the doctors that she was never going to regain consciousness. She was taken to a ward to, as the medical staff tried to delicately put it, let nature take its course.

I have no idea whether she had any idea what was going on. Her brain was virtually dead. However she obviously had a tougher constitution than even she would have imagined as without the aid of equipment to keep her alive she survived for another six days. They were the longest six days of my life.

For a week, I, my wife, and my Dad made the daily trip to sit in shifts with my mum as she lay dying. There was no hope that she would recover, we were just waiting for her to die and to be with her when she did. It’s hard to describe how difficult it is to spend so much time watching someone you care about, and who cared about you so deeply, slowly and visibly deteriorate. You want to do something but there’s absolutely nothing you can do.

Each day became more and more difficult to make the trip to the hospital, to sit there and listen to her breathing become more erratic and raspy, whilst normal life in the ward continued around us. There were distractions of course, when I left the ward the real world would creep back in and other family members provided some practical support during that time for which I will be eternally grateful.

I will confess to the fact that I’m scared of death. I worry about it on a daily basis. What I really didn’t want to see was anyone, not least someone so close to me, just die in front of me. Rather selfishly I had hoped that when it happened it would be during the night. However, as fate would have it I was there with my wife when my mum died. 

All deaths are different I would imagine. Some are peaceful and some are not. Having had no previous experience of death I don’t know where to put my mum’s but it appeared, when it came, to be sudden and difficult. I won’t go into details but I will never forget the sights and sounds and smells associated with that moment.

My father said afterwards that he wished he had been there when she died. I tell him that I’m glad that he wasn’t, but I don’t think that he will ever really understand why I say this. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I was there for her but in many ways I wish I hadn’t been as, in amongst all the good memories I have of the mum I remember as I was growing up, I will also carry with me the memory of that terrible week and those last desperate moments for the rest of my days, and I suspect that she wouldn’t have wanted that.

So, when I’m running on Sunday morning, when I feel like my legs are aching, and I’m starting to wheeze a little and just want to stop and have a little sit down, I’ll remember that week back in September last year and recall that if you’d given me the option then I would have given anything to be anywhere else, doing anything else, including running 4 kilometres in some ill-fitting shorts in front of a load of cheering strangers.

So, to all my friends and family in the real world and online this is my last plea for sponsorship, I promise, at least until the next time. If you can spare a few pennies or a few pounds for the good work that The Stroke Association do, then please visit my Just Giving page at http://www.justgiving.com/Terry-Hayward3

 

Anything you can give is much appreciated and you can always donate after Sunday if you’d prefer. The website stays open for donations for up to three months after the event.

Thank you.

What Not to Wear

Despite the Indian Summer we are currently experiencing, which technically isn’t anything of the sort as there needs to be a frost first before the warm weather, my mind has turned to the end of October and All Hallows Eve. There is a good reason for this; I have been invited to a Halloween party. 

It’s been organised by my employers and sounds like it will be a jolly jape, but the dress code troubles me a little, and I’ll explain why.

I have to say to my fellow colleagues, some of whom are regular visitors to this blog and read my incessant ramblings, although heaven knows why when they have to put up with me all day at work, that the dress code in itself is not a problem and covers all bases, but that’s where I’m most likely to slip up.

Let me share the dress code with you. It says something along the lines of, ‘fancy dress optional’. Yes, optional. Not essential but optional. Now I have read this clearly, fancy dress is allowed, but if you don’t fancy the fancy dress then you don’ t have to dress in a fancy way. 

Now, despite this party being a few weeks away, I’ve already started to think about what I can wear. I’ve been to previous Halloween parties organised by wife-in-waiting up in Lincoln but she has always been clear on the dress code and, quite frankly, unless you’re in fancy dress you can take a hike. 

When it comes to Halloween outfits I take a lateral thinking approach and have, in the past, chosen not to dress up in an obvious costume like a vampire or a werewolf. I haven’t put a sheet over my head and gone as a ghost or even donned a pointy hat and sat on a broomstick like some sort of transvestite witch. I have usually attended the Halloween party dressed as a dead celebrity, specifically ones that have met their maker unexpectedly or in unusual circumstances.

One year saw me in matching khaki shirt and shorts, a fetching blond wig on my head, and a giant rubber snake around my neck as I tried to resurrect within me the spirit of crocodile and stingray-agitating antipodean, Steve Irwin. Some may think that is thoroughly tasteless. Sorry about that but it did attract a little bit of attention and a lot of young (and some old) ladies were keen to stroke my snake, so to speak.

 The next year I stuck a tux on, whacked a fez on my head, and went as Tommy Cooper. Just like that.

I’m not sure why we weren’t able to go last year but I had plans to dress as Michael Jackson. Whilst I may have the moves (if you can imagine a middle aged man trying to do Thriller) I don’t really have the same body shape as the late Jacko so I’m not quite sure how that would have panned out, but I feel the moment has passed for that look now.

So I’m left to ponder who I should dress up as next, but let me get back to the main issue of the day, that vague dress code instruction.

You see my main worry stems from a party I was invited to by a couple of work colleagues at my previous employer, some years ago. They sent out invitations and stated the dress code was ‘black and white’. 

Now, our brains are all wired in different ways. Some people have brains that are very good at detail; some are more creative and focus on the bigger picture. Without immediately disclosing which neurological camp my flag has been planted in I think it is fair to say that I saw the word ‘party’ and my mind went into possibility overdrive.

For no explicable reason I had misunderstood the dress code as being fancy dress and so I started to exercise the old grey matter thinking of what I could go as given the black and white theme. My colleagues did nothing to correct my error of thinking although for some reason most of my immediate colleagues weren’t going to the party despite one of the organisers sharing an office with us, and maybe I should have followed their lead.

So, caught up in the fancy dress whirlwind, I didn’t notice the look of bemusement in the face of said organiser when I speculated that I might go to this party dressed as either a penguin or a panda. I think she thought it was just silly old Terry being silly old Terry. He comes out with funny things you know, just smile politely and back away.

In the end I followed my internal fancy dress rules. I went for something that I could pull off, given my shape and the general look of me, and in which I would still be able to hold and drink a pint of beer.

So, after a bit of ruminating, I came up with what I thought was a good idea. I would go to the party dressed as a football referee. OK, so it’s mostly a black outfit but with a few flourishes and the addition of a black and white football I had the perfect fancy dress costume. 

The present Mrs Hayward opted not to go in fancy dress, rather to wear a black and white frock, but even that didn’t ring any alarm bells with me.

We turned up at the venue that evening just as other party guests were arriving. As I parked in the car park I noticed immediately the distinct lack of anybody dressed as a zebra, a policeman, or a mint humbug, as I had expected. Instead men were wearing black suits and white shirts and the ladies were in black and white dresses, much like Mrs Hayward.

I was not unduly concerned. I figured that these were just the people who had chickened out, the real fancy dress people will be inside having a great time. Again, I didn’t notice the curious glances of my fellow partygoers as I got out of the car looking as if I was about to head out onto the football pitch to referee a Sunday pub league game. 

I guess I don’t need to tell you the rest. There was no-one else in fancy dress at the party, just me. Everyone else had not mis-read the invitation like I had and so I spent the whole evening self-consciously clamped to a seat with my bare knees hidden under a table. I gave my football to some kids so they could go and play in the car park and at no point did I need, or dare, to blow my whistle or show someone either a yellow or red card.

I felt like a bit of a fool although my fellow work colleagues didn’t appear to be at all phased by my bizarre interpretation of the dress code. I worry about my reputation sometimes.

Mind you it wasn’t the most bizarre thing that happened that evening. Later on the two organisers, both women in their fifties, got on to the dance floor and did a high energy rock and roll routine together, as a bit of entertainment for the crowd. That has burnt itself on to my synapses and still troubles me when I’m trying to get to sleep at night, but I think they were happy with it and everyone clapped politely. 

So, you can understand my problem. Do I go in fancy dress to a Halloween party where there’s a good chance that no-one else will dress up in a costume, whilst I arrive dressed as Rod Hull and Emu, or do I just risk being labelled as boring and go in my usual ‘going out clothes’? You see, the problem with me is that I prefer things a little more black and white.

Come on Emu, let’s get our coats. We’ve just got to sort out the picture on that TV first.

Driving in my Car

I think that I’ve mentioned before that I like cars but I know virtually nothing about them. Driving is still fun although I don’t go out driving for driving’s sake like I used to in the months after I passed my driving test. In those days a friend introduced me to a game where we would pick a colour and follow the next car of that colour for nine minutes, wherever it went. These days this would be considered stalking and even then it was frowned upon, particularly when I followed one such target into his own driveway.

These days driving a car is all about taking me from A to B as quickly as possible. I watch Top Gear on the TV but this really tells me nothing about cars. Yes, I can marvel at a Bugatti Veyron and wish that I owned one but in the real world it would be like me trying to open a can of baked beans with a pneumatic drill, it’s the wrong tool for the job. 

What would be more frustrating than sat in a Veyron, knowing that with a slight tap of the accelerator I could be launched on to the moon, when in fact I’m most likely going to be sat behind a tractor crawling along the A15 at 20mph? Despite the Veyron’s top speed of 253mph I won’t even be able to overtake as there’ll be too much traffic skulking behind another tractor coming in the opposite direction.

Did you know that tractors don’t have to have any road tax because they’re primarily off–road vehicles? I often ponder that peculiarity of the law when I’m slowly trundling along in a queue of traffic behind Farmer Barley Mow on his way home, and note that he could be making use of the empty fields either side of the road rather than holding up a mile of traffic. This is a pet hate of mine so don’t get me started.

I am left therefore with the choice of a normal run-of-the mill road car that’s efficient but has a little bit of poke to alarm the present Mrs Hayward with on the motorway, but not enough to have me pursued down the A1(M) by screaming squad cars. 

I do like an unusual looking car though. I put this down to the fact that the earliest car I remember my parents having was a Morris Traveller. Whoever thought of adding a large proportion of wood to the outer shell of the car was a genius and a madman in equal parts. It looked less like a car and more like a sideboard but as a small child I was fascinated with it. 

I convinced myself that when I was old enough to drive I too would have a funny looking car. As it was the first car I drove after passing my test was a beige Austin Maestro that you could only crank into fifth gear when the moon was in alignment with Neptune. It wasn’t funny looking, it just wasn’t very good but it got me about.

Now I drive a Vauxhall Astra. Not the most exciting or attractive car in the world but not the worst looking either. Most road cars blend into one amorphous mechanical blob to me but the Astra has that nice silver band across its rear that I quite like for some reason. Don’t get me wrong, I covet the Honda Civic, the new one with an interior like a spaceship, and in comparison the Astra is a cheap boiled sweet, charming but boring, whereas the Civic is the Malteser sweet out of a tin of Celebrations, all shiny and exciting and full of chocolately naughtiness.

I don’t know what it is about discussing cars that forces an individual into spouting clichés like they’ve been possessed by the agitated spirit of Jeremy Clarkson but I note that it’s happened to me here and I shall ride that wave until I crash face first on the jagged rock of unoriginality.

In the end it doesn’t matter. I’ll probably go and choose another Vauxhall next time because the people at the service centre are quite nice. Not that I intend to be visiting them that often but if something goes wrong I have no idea what to do. What goes on under the bonnet is a mystery to me. I’ve heard of the carburettor and the head gasket but I don’t really know what they are. I’m not bothered by this. People ride horses but I suspect that very few know how its respiratory system works. They just like riding them.

So that’s really where I came in. I have explained in a convoluted way that I like cars but I don’t understand them, and that I don’t like tractors. 

Mind you, give me a tractor and I’ll show you how it should be driven, at speed and in a field with ‘go faster’ stripes down the side. Tractor Drag Racing anyone?

No Heavy Petting

I’ve just had to look up the word ‘petting’. This is mostly because I entered into a discussion with some work colleagues today about what my understanding of ‘heavy petting’ was.  I’d assumed that it was snogging as there used to be a sign in the local swimming pool when I was about seven which declared that there should be ‘No Heavy Petting’ and this was illustrated with the crudely drawn picture of two swimmers puckering up with a little ‘x’ kiss sign above them. 

However the online Oxford Dictionary describes petting as to “engage in sexually stimulating caressing and touching” which has surprised me somewhat and puts an entirely different slant on a ‘petting zoo’. 

The reason that petting (heavy or otherwise) became of interest is that only the day before, whilst in a pool, I’d commented to the present Mrs Hayward that there was no such restriction. I read the signs, ‘No Jumping’, ‘No Running’, etc., all of which were being steadfastly ignored by the kids using the pool, but petting was in no way prohibited. 

That’s not to say there was any petting going on in the pool, that would just be wrong, and probably unhygienic given my new understanding of the words, but I guess it’s just become an unwritten rule. After all, if you had to have signs for everything you shouldn’t do in a pool then it would be a very long list indeed. 

‘No usage of Mobile Phones in the pool, ‘No Washing of Swine in the Pool’, ‘No Riding of Mopeds off the High Diving Board’, ‘No Re-enactment of Historical Naval Battles’, the list could go on and on. 

I suppose the point is that I have never encountered the phrase ‘No Heavy Petting’ anywhere else but in a swimming pool. Maybe that’s what put me off swimming pools during my formative years, it wasn’t the deep water and fear of drowning, it was the lack of opportunities for petting with girls.

Ah yes, the swimming. Unlike my new found running abilities the swimming has gone backwards a little since the lessons stopped. I’ve lost the confidence to actually put a few strokes together to swim. However this weekend, whilst we were staying in a Marriott Hotel (tres posh - it had an ironing board and a trouser press in the room so it gets the Terry Hayward seal of approval), was the first time in a while where I was happy to float in the pool without staying within grabbing distance of the edge. 

As I’ve mentioned before, the swimming instructors taught me the basics of how to swim assuming the confidence just  comes with this new found knowledge. Perhaps it does for normal folk but if you have a phobia of deep water then it takes a little more time. So, once I’ve found a quiet pool locally, I’ll go back and re-gain my confidence. At least I can say I have swam this year, and I am more confident now than I was six months ago, so I’ve achieved something, even if I’m not challenging for a place in the GB Olympic swimming team. 

So, it’s a phobia I am conquering slowly. Perhaps next year I’ll try to conquer my fear of spiders. Who knows, I could try to tackle both the same time and swim in a pool full of spiders.

Summertime Blues

Thank heavens for Friday. I have been rushed off my feet this week. There’s been no gentle easing back into work after our holiday, it’s been chaos from start to finish. 

Someone asked me why I was looking so wistful, and occasionally pained, on Monday. I replied that I was thinking and I hadn’t had to do much of that during the previous week. When I was laid on a sunbed in a charming resort in Majorca the only things I needed to really consider was whether I was going to go for a dip in the pool or have another drink. That kind of decision doesn’t take much in the way of serious thinking.

Consequently my brain has been slopping about my head this week like a congealed rice pudding. Staring blankly into space has become the norm and rudimentary thought processes have required me to self-flagellate my skull with a ball point pen to spark the old grey matter into life. 

It’s now the end of my first week back at work and already that sun lounger is becoming a distant memory. The heat of the Majorcan sun is fading (even if the present Mrs Hayward’s tan isn’t) and the taste of freshly cooked Tapas has been replaced by the taste of vending machine cardboard-flavoured tea.

My melancholy has come about because we had a really nice holiday. We’ve never been on holiday with friends before but it was a very nice experience. We laughed, we drank, we swam, we drank, we ate, we drank, we ran (you what?), we drank, you know how it is, all good fun. 

Well maybe apart from the running bit. That hurt. My lungs were at risk of exploding thanks to the humidity so I only did it the once, I was on holiday after all. Oh and my liver? Well, as we all know, it is evil and it must be punished.

So here’s to holidays and sunshine and fizzy Spanish beer. Oh, and cats. Many cats, although their presence hasn’t softened Mrs Hayward’s attitude to them, despite getting the chance to name one. She called it ‘Dog’. 

I will most likely regale more tales from the Balearics in the coming days and weeks, for a start I need to get your opinions on the unwritten rules of ‘I Spy’, but for now I shall turn my brain off until Monday morning.

Adios!