Hangover + run = FML

I learnt an important (and some would say obvious) lesson today: never run with a hangover.

It's been a busy week. Normally my social diary is pathetically empty and I have to resort to diarising things like "Tesco shop" or "X Factor" to fill the blank spaces. But for once I've been busy with actual fun outings. So indulge me if it sounds like a whitewhine. "Oh, my social life is so hectic. No one has problems like me."

I've had things on for four evenings in a row - two dinners, a night out at Book Slam (amazing - especially David Nicholls) and, last night, an evening in the pub. Where we saw Emma Watson, who is very pretty indeed in real life.

Anyway. I have been drinking every night and I was really starting to feel it yesterday. I nonetheless got through half a bottle of Shiraz and a vodka tonic and my hangover kicked in at about 10pm. I slept terribly. I woke up several times with a dry mouth and pounding heart. My stomach hurts. My head hurts. You booze, you lose.

And if you try and do a long run after said boozing, you especially lose. I did my longest run to date today - ended up being 6.96 miles (hurrah!) but my god it was painful. And it took a whopping 1hr 35 mins. That is as long as your average feature film. There are probably people somewhere in the world who can get an actual marathon done in that time.

It really was a physical and emotional battle. Even the sight of several cute dogs, usually a demiquaver of cheer in the relentless double semibreve of a long run, did nothing to help lift my spirits. All I could think of was getting home and sitting down with a soothing cup of tea and morphine drip.

The last mile was a joke. The only point at which I managed a proper speed during that mile was when I spotted an odious little creep of a letting agent that I was unlucky enough to have to deal with recently. I took momentary pleasure in the fact that he is growing a moustache, presumably for Movember, and it looks crap. Like someone has spread PVA glue on his top lip and flicked some pubic hairs at it. Anyway, I made that hilarious observation (to myself) then I pegged it in case he recognised me. Once he was out of sight I slumped back into leg-dragging, whimpering inertia.

The point is, I did it, it was NOT FUN, but let's draw a line under it and hope things improve.

Incidentally, I did an hour of yoga when I got home and it felt totally brilliant. I think it's the way forward. It certainly helps with the calf muscle of doom. Will blog about that again another time.