Running in Colour

'There is no such thing as fun for the whole family' is an epigram attributed to Jerry Seinfeld, and I am, ordinarily, inclined to agree.

Until, that is, a few weeks ago we took part in Brighton's Colour Run.

Getting ready (in pristine white t-shirts) was fun in the morning: I had kept the race packs hidden until the big day so it was a nice surprise for everyone to get their goodies over breakfast.

5km was short enough for Hearth-father and his dodgy hip, and for Eddie and his little legs, and enough of a challenge for Gertie and Gilby who, to give them their due, ran pretty much the whole race.

It helped that it was a gloriously sunny day, despite being near the end of September.

The race itself involves being squirted with dry paint and/or foam every kilometre or so. Not sure why this is such a laugh, but for some reason it is.

And the fun didn't end at the finish line. There was a kind of after-run party that felt like a festival with periodic colour bursts into the crowd and great music.

 Apologies that this post is more of a photo album, but there were some good ones!

There was even, and this was one of my most favourite parts of the day, an opportunity for a celebratory post-run beer on a roof-top terrace overlooking the beach. Not bad for late September!

(Admittedly this part was probably more fun for mum and dad, but hey.)

So, Jerry, take note: Everyone wants to sign up again for next year's run!

Currently reading: H is for Hawk by Helen MacDonald

The Value of Saturday Morning

Helluva week.  Celebrated a significant birthday and got all the GCSE coursework sample into the post by some miracle on Friday afternoon.

Daddy works on Saturdays, so far from being a relaxing break, the weekend routine is quite hectic.

Kempy has to be walked by 8.30am (I make this sound like a chore, but actually it is one of my favourite parts of the day) before Daddy leaves; then we rush out of the door to Gertie's gymnastics class.  Thankfully they have progressed a little bit beyond standing on tiptoes, and walking along benches, and she can now turn a dodgy cartwheel, so I feel that I am getting some value at £5 a time.

After dropping off at gym we hare down the road to Gilby's football.  Though, in fairness, that is a little grand to describe the activity of the bunch of three year olds who bumble around the football pitch.  It is week three, and much more successful now that the weather is a bit warmer.  It was a write-off last winter: we tried for a couple of sessions but then it became a case of me holding his hand on the side of the pitch while we all turned blue and he refused to get involved.  He now 'plays' for most of the hour, interrupted by frequent cuddles, snacks and general whinging.  Did David Beckham begin this way?  I suspect not.  It is a bargain though, at a mere £4.50 a session.

Eddie is not really content to sit on the sidelines and would like to get involved.  He mostly shouts, 'Ball!' and points excitedly, but since he is still not able to walk (and is now in the process of having some 'special' shoes made by the physio to encourage him) the likelihood of joining in is quite limited.  I entertain him for as long as possible, then bundle him in the car to dash back to the gym to pick up Gertie (whose class finishes 15 minutes before her brother's), and then hurtle back to the football pitch in time to see Gilby not win player of the day.  Both sporting venues have carparks a significant way away, and timing is so tight I seem to spend most of the time on the run, literally.  Probably doing more exercise than Gertie and Gilby, in fact.

All that fun, for less than a tenner...

Old Enough and Large Enough to Know Better

January is a time when thoughts inevitably turn to getting fit, being healthier and losing weight - and clearly, when the new year 'detox' fails, the solution is gym membership.

If you have not succumbed already, then a word of caution. Last September I signed up as a member of my local golf club. This has nothing to do with a passion for golf (it is a silly game that I am rubbish at) and everything to do with a multi-million pound refurbishment of the gym, swimming pool and spa and very reasonable off-peak membership - £36 a month to include all classes and as many visits as you can make. They also have a wonderful creche.

So obviously I am regularly swanning around in lycra, receiving admiring glances at my svelte and trim post-pregnancy figure. Well, no. Because of course with two small children and in spite of the 'wonderful creche' there is never any time to go. I have calculated that my average visit costs £18. This goes up dramatically if I am forced to use the creche (not included in the membership and payable by the hour). A bargain!

And this is not the first time I have been suckered in to unrealistic gym memberships; in waving goodbye to my monthly direct debit I might as well throw a bundle of tenners into the passing wind every four weeks. I am old enough and 'large' enough to know better!

This is my 50th post - how did that happen? And written in response to this week's writing workshop posted by Josie at Sleep is for the Weak: What I am unable to learn no matter how hard I try.