M.T. McGuire's Blog, page 28

How not to launch an ebook. The K’Barthan Box Set is out. #Newbooks #KBarthan

Believe it or not, I released a new book today. Unfortunately, I haven’t launched it quite the way I wanted or expected to. It’s been a bit of a stealth launch, but it’s not my fault, honest guv!

You see, on Sunday, my mum was taken into hospital so I drove to Sussex, first to sit with her, and then back to the house to keep Dad company. I drove back to Bury on Tuesday and back to Sussex for the day yesterday. As a result most of my waking hours were spent in hospital, texting and emailing people news, hanging out with my dad and that meant that I had to prepare for the book launch in the hours when I was meant to be asleep. Which means I’m quite knackered now and the book launch has happened in a very minimal way rather than with a bit more … well … you know … gusto!

Mum and Dad are both coping well, although Mum’s still in hospital. She is much better, but the first day, when she was clearly feeling so ill and couldn’t speak, has to be one of the most harrowing days of my life. So, I now have a couple of days’ brief respite to visit the Real World and put my affairs for this past week, and next week, in order while my brother looks after them for a day or two. Then there’ll probably be a second shift for me until we can get Mum home.

What this all adds up to is the fact that, if you weren’t on my mailing list, or watching my author site like a hawk, you probably don’t know a thing about my latest release. So here’s the low down.

The K’Barthan Box Set comprises all four full-length K’Barthan Series novels combined into one huge ebook … for the price of two of the stand-alones. So if you have downloaded the free first book and want to grab the rest of the series, you can swipe all four in one bargain hit. Here’s the blurb:

All The Pan of Hamgee wants is a quiet life.

So why did he have to fall in love with a woman living a different version of reality, upset a murderous tyrant and then run out of places to hide?

Now all he has to do is face his inner demons, rescue everything he holds dear and save the world, or die trying.

Oh yes, and he’s an abject coward.

Great. No pressure then.

The Box Set is currently on sale £6.99 ($7.99 in every type of dollar: US, CA, AU, NZ). So, if you think you’d like to treat yourself, here’s where you can find it:

Apple UK

Apple USA

Apple AU

Barnes & Noble

Kobo US

Kobo UK

Kobo CA

Amazon – goes to your local store, wherever you are:

Google Play

Finally, if you want to help, you are welcome to reblog, or share the good news on Social Media, if you do that kind of thing. Just pick your favourite outlet from the buttons at the bottom of this page and share away!

 

Oh no! The world’s been tangoed!

The US President is going to be a man who has painted himself, with apparent pride, as a racist, homophobic, misogynist. Here’s hoping that was just campaigning.

What I don’t understand is why anyone is shocked he got elected? It’s been the absolute inevitable result of that election since Brexit. And now the world has to live with it. You can draw many inferences from this about American blue collar workers, some of which are quite worrying. But actually, a different and intriguing idea did occur to me from all of this.

In one of the Scandinavian countries, can’t remember which one Denmark, I think? The, political parties have capped advertising budgets. This means that instead of seeing bullshit advertising, folks see debates on TV about the real issues. They investigate the pros and cons they talk about stuff, it’s a cerebral thing not a media circus and it’s about this issues involved, not the personalities. Their election turn outs are very high, over 80%.

In the US political advertising is a multi million dollar business. The turn out for elections there is around 48%.

So, my theory is this.

Most people are smart enough to know that advertising is complete bullshit. If it’s not funny, it tends to be pretentious shite. Therefore, if we see advertising for politics, the message we receive, could be that adverts = bullshit, therefore if political parties advertise, eventually, what people feel, far from informed, is lied to, fobbed off, manipulated and advertised to. They conclude that politics = bullshit.

The more the parties advertise to try and win us round, the more we, the intelligent ones, equate politics with advertising aka bullshit.

It may well be that I’m not the only person of reasonable intelligence and/or principles who is repelled by most of politics and politicians right now. Whatever it is that’s turning off the reasonable moderate members of the electorate, the end result appears to be that many stop voting. Me, I’m a woman, people died so I could vote so I will always vote even if I just spoil my paper. But I think that there are many moderate thinkers who are a bit naive, for example, some young people who have not yet learned that if you want the equivalent of clean washing you have to put your hands in the dirty water to grab it. There is a point to voting, it being that had they bothered the result might be different.

Could it be that when politics is advertised, we distrust it and stop voting? It does seem that a big proportion of the folks too disgusted to vote are those of us who believe in moderation and basic human decency. The sort of folks who really, really don’t want to feel they’ve been suckered by advertisers. And that leaves two groups. The extremists, who are playing a numbers game so will always vote, and the kinds of folks who will do whatever the vile racist rags like the Daily Mail, the Sun or its US equivalent tells them to.

Never mind, at least we have four years of cracking political satire ahead of us.

I want to be straight! (Yeh) I want to be straight! I’m sick and tired of taking drugs and staying up late.

It occurred to me, the other day, that it might be prudent to try and explain why it takes me so sodding long to write a book. So in this gargantuan half rant, half post with a dash of tirade I am going to try. Basically, it’s about admin.

Frankly, I think I may be unique in the extent of my total and utter inability to organise anything easily: be it myself, others, things I find it incredibly hard to sort them out. Indeed, I would probably have a second life to live if I could somehow claw back the endless hours I spend looking for my glasses and my keys.  Also my life is ruled by Murphy and his law, no, not Murphy; Sod. Presumably that’s why, in the perfect irony, I have been given a life where I have to organise a lot of stuff, mostly to do with other people’s lives. Because I’m shit at it and someone up there thinks that’s funny. Like the time I declared that I’d never ever marry a lawyer … and the right man came along and of course he was, indeed, is, a lawyer.

This time of year McOther’s working hours go crazy, he has corporate events to go to at the weekends, the NFL play matches at Wembley which, as he spent his formative years in North America, he is desperately keen to attend – also at the weekends – and they make a 40 minute game take hours … Suffice to say, McMini misses his calming presence. So do I. This year, my organisational inability over the months coming up to Christmas seems to be particularly bad. I know I like variety and I know I have a sense of humour but it would be nice if just once I could organise one single smecking thing and have it go according to plan. Not that I do plan. Ever. Because there’s absolutely no effing point. But I do kind of, prime stuff and expect … results of a certain nature.

Case in point. This week. This week is not so different from any other week in my house other than that it’s got me feeling a little down. I don’t know why because this is my life, this is how I live but I’ve found myself wishing I could be one of the normals. To explain what I’m talking about … well … here’s the story so far.

We arrived home from our half term trip abroad rested and ready for action, except my iPad – which I had dropped for the second time before we went away, breaking it for the second time, Gorilla Glass my arse – decided to die on the Sunday night. Properly. So, as the folks who were going to fix it for £50 when they got the screen hadn’t rung in three weeks I decided I’d better get my wallet ready for a spanking and try the Apple store.

A few minutes later, I walked into the kitchen and just happened to notice McCat popping in, with grey feathers hanging out of his mouth. He had a squint round as if checking the coast was clear and made to head out. I shut the cat flap knowing that there was a body out there, one he was going to bring in, disembowel and eat bloodily and messily on the beige carpet outside our spare room.

No.

Not happening.

Looking out into the garden to check I could see a lot of feathers in the light from the kitchen window. It looked as if someone had burst a pillow out there. So McOther and I concluded that there would, indeed, be a body. On his mission to put out the bins McOther had a look and discovered that contrary to our expectations there was a live victim. A pigeon, looking very sorry for itself, with few wing feathers, a bald neck and absolutely NO tail whatsoever. Inevitably, we christened him Kojak.

There wasn’t much we could do for Kojak at 8.00 pm on a Sunday night except leave him and hope he recovered, the reasoning being that he’d be gone or dead in the morning. Monday dawned and Kojak was not dead but unfortunately not gone either. I would have to rescue him.

Bum. I didn’t really have time for that.

So I chalked him up as another thing to do after the school run and my, now, inevitable trip to the Apple store with my smashed and non-functional iPad. I locked the cat inside and off we went to school.

Surprising joy from the Apple store. The iPad hadn’t really died, it was just pretending, the smashed glass was lifting and not conducting so well so the screen was beginning to stop working. I decided to skip the folks who hadn’t rung me about the screen in 3 weeks and took it to another store. Yes, the fellow told me, he could fix it and would do so by that afternoon at 4.00pm (thank you Sod, who rules my life and knows the school run has me going past there at 3.30pm).

I left it and went to the gym for dodgy knee maintainance. That done it was home to find out what to do with Kojak. After about an hour surfing the internet which only told me that a trip to Norfolk was required – 30 miles away but probably at speeds of no faster than 30mph the whole distance on a good day. This was not doable in the time I had left if I wanted to present myself at the school on time to get McMini. In desperation I rang the Vet’s.

‘Bring him here,’ the told me.

So I captured Kojak, which took a bit more doing than I expected, because he’d perked up quite a bit, and carried him round to the Vet’s in a box.

Kojak in his box looking surprisingly perky

Kojak despatched to safer climes, I returned home, released the cat, cleared up the thermonuclear weapons-grade pooh he’d done in his earth box, washed up breakfast and even managed to write about 3 words before it was time to go collect McMini. We faffed about long enough to be able to visit the shop mending the iPad at 4.00 and discovered that the people who mended it last cocked it up and broke some stuff – including the wifi transmitter, which explains why it was so shit. So he would get the parts and call me when they were ready. (Does this sound familiar?).

Tuesday passed without incident – or contact from the iPad menders. Wednesday was visit-the-parents-day and the journey to and from Sussex was surprisingly smooth. Only a small stop at the Dartford Tunnel where I received a text to say that my iPad was ready for collection and arrived home just too late to be able to pick it up. I also discovered that I’ve driven my car through a hole somewhere, the tracking was out and I had therefore spunked an extra £15 worth of petrol on the trip on a smooth journey with no major delays – it having used the entire tank instead of the usual two thirds. Having a quick look round the car as it was parked at the pump I saw one front tyre was a little low. I drove over to the air line, which someone else arrived at just before me, of course, and while they did their air I opened the boot and rummaged about for my car’s handbook.

I found it, but I also found stern warnings about putting air in when the tyres are hot. The car must have been stationery for 3 hours minimum. Then, I must drive no more than 1 mile from cold and then check the air. I must not drive no miles. One mile it must be, two was too many and three was right out, one and only one mile must I drive etc.

Overjoyed that here was another bit of administrative shite I could piss my precious time away doing, ie go get the tracking done and the tyres balanced and do the sodding air, I felt a little deflated for a moment. Then I remembered. Never mind, at least something had gone according to plan. I was going to get my iPad back.

Now, when I go in my car to my parents, my fibit thinks that I am running up and down 300 flights of stairs and walking about 40,000 steps. It kind of buggers up the averages so I take it off and do it up round my bra strap, where, strangely, it ceases to log all non-existent activity. Clearly despite being jiggly, my jiggly bits are not as jiggly as … well … you know. You get the picture. This means I had taken it off and snapped it round my bra as I left Mum and Dad’s. As I approached the traffic lights at the end of the road ASDA is on, I’d remembered I must put it on again. By the time I pulled up at the ASDA petrol forecourt I had, of course, forgotten all about remembering.

While I was filling the tank the empty road outside ASDA filled up with traffic as the council offices emptied at 5.30 so I took my place among their 8,000 employees, most of whom seemed to be in cars, queuing for the lights. It took me 20 minutes to get home and I broke the good news about the iPad to McOther and had a lovely chat with McMini. I went upstairs to have a shower and put my pyjamas on before supper at 6.30. Then I looked at my fitbit. It wasn’t there.

I took a rain check on the shower. Instead I searched my car – even under the seats, a process which involves feats of contortion few humans, other than lotus owners, are capable of – and failed to find my fitbit there, either.

Arse.

I drove to ASDA. Was it there? Was it bollocks?

I asked at lost property, ‘No,’ the lady informed me. ‘If it hasn’t been found after half an hour it probably won’t be but pop in when you are here next week.’

I trudged back to the car park, cursing myself for being such a spacker.

When I got home McMini threw open his arms.

‘Mummy, I’m so sorry to hear about your fitbit, come and give me a hug so you will feel better.’

As I hugged him tight and looked over his head to the kindly face of McOther it did occur to me that every cloud has a silver lining.

Sometimes my life feels as if it’s like this. Other times …

… it’s more like this. Welcome to my world.

Wednesday night poor little McMini had another bad dream about the air raid siren. Who thought World War Two was a good topic to teach 8 year olds? Seriously? Nobody with an 8 year old kid, that’s for certain. He was so scared he was shaking, a couple of times his fear has been enough to make him throw up.

Thursday I went to the shop to pick up my iPad. I discovered that the shop didn’t open until 10.00 am. As I was on the way back from the school run this was a bit of a pain. So I went and did some shopping, did another knee improving session at the gym and went back to the store at 10.30. It was still closed. No note of explanation, according to the door and their website, it was working hours and should have been open it just … wasn’t. I texted the chap who had let me know the iPad was ready, asking what gives. He explained that his colleague would be there on Friday, definitely and we arranged a time for me to pick up my iPad. Disgruntled at schlepping up the hill for nothing I grumbled my way home. Oh well, at least it would be there the next day.

In the evening, I went to a skiing lesson. Yes, buggered knees aside, I thought I’d give it a go because McOther and McMini can do it and want us to go on a family skiing holiday. But I have to see if it’s physically possible first. Hence the lesson, the third of three, which started at 7.00pm. It’s in Ipswich, 30 minutes down the A14 … or not because it was blocked. The minor roads either side were gridlocked and it took me an hour and a half to get there. On the upside, I found out enough in advance to leave early and only be 15 minutes late.

This morning, Friday, I locked my keys in the house. It says a lot for the regularity with which I do this that I forgot to mention it until the last edit of this tirade, and that I was back in, picking them up and locking up properly in about 30 seconds, causing McMini to exclaim,

‘Mummy you are just the best burglar ever!’

Pshaw! M T blows casually on fingers. We weren’t even that late.

But that’s what I mean. Nothing, and I mean nothing goes according to plan. If a simple 10 minute phone call can turn into five hours of endless buttock numbing tedium it will. If something that should be straightforward and simple like, ‘please can I have this?’ is able to turn into five days of wrangling, begging and pleading, it does. Nine times out of ten it’s my own fault or because I’ve been a total dork and missed a deadline or some step that the normals take in their stride. What is going on? Is everyone else’s life like this or is it just mine? Maybe my people skills are crap. But really, what is so difficult about,

‘Can you fix my iPad.’

‘Yes, you can pick it up tommorow.’

Next day: ‘Hi I’ve come to pick up my iPad. I see your shop is actually open at the times the notice on the door says, and at the time I arranged to pick up my iPad and pay you money.’

‘It is, indeed, madam. That’s how the retail business is usually conducted.’

This morning I made sure I was doing something interesting in the time until the iPad repair shop opened, at 10.00. I had breakfast with a friend. Again, I gave the shop a bit of slack. Again, at 10.30 they were still closed. I sent a stinking text to the fixit man saying his colleagues were tossers (politely, obviously) and asking when was he next in. So I’ll be picking it up on Monday.

And in the middle of all this stupid shit, I’m trying to write a book. And I had two hours to work on it today. But I couldn’t. Because I’m too smecking cross. So I did another welter of overhanging admin and wrote this, instead. If I could give up writing, I would, but I need it. It’s like some horrible drugs habit. I’m a high functioning authorholic.

You see this is the problem.

My brain hates admin. It wants to concentrate on the important things in life like making shit up and … I dunno, listening to music, drawing, or the view, or the next joke. If I have loads of crap to remember to do it gets kind of fried. So if all the stuff I have to remember, like making bank transfers, checking cash, booking dental appointments, going to them, booking a slot to get my car’s tracking done – going to the post office to collect the parcel that some dickwad has sent me with £2.00 to pay because they didn’t put enough stamps on it, in case it’s important (it never is) – if all that total wanksputle starts to overwhelm my brain it just thinks, fuck this for a game of soldiers I’m off and then it buggers off somewhere, and I wish I knew where but I don’t. It just switches off.

And it switches everything off, including the important stuff that I’m interested in and actually want to remember, like that cunning plot twist I’d thought of for my book, or remembering to put my watch/fitbit back on, or forgetting that my iPad cover comes off and it drops out sometimes … onto the floor … and breaks.

And I end up giving myself even more administrivatative shit to sort out because I’ve forgotten deadlines, and then I end up getting even more pissed off and frustrated and angry that the majority of my span on this earth is going to be spent sorting out mindless shitty shite for me and others who can’t do it without my help. For the rest of my days. Oh yes, and in between all of that there’ll be lots and lots of chronic knee pain. The outlook for the rest of my life is incredibly bleak.

No wonder I need to escape.

And yet … for all that. I know I’m happy. Because it’s friends and family and the people around a person who make their world, not this shit. I just wish … well … that there was a little bit less of the shit sometimes or that occasionally, just once or twice, when I tried to do something, it went … OK it’s never going to go according to plan but maybe if it could just go wrong the way it does for normal people?

So there you go. Here’s a joke. You have to read it out loud though .. and to be honest its a bit crap

What do the Portugese do with their cars?

On a final note, McMini had a Boy’s Brigade meeting tonight about a mile from our house so I drove there and then went to ASDA to do the tyre pressures on my car. You’d think I’d have managed that but no, it turns out that air, these days, costs 20p. And I left my wallet at home and I don’t have a 20p piece anyway. So although I’ll be in the right place in the right circumstances tonight, nothing can be done. (There’s no kiosk at ASDA so I can’t get change and no other garages who do have a kiosk nearby). Then, as I unlocked the door upon our arrival home, I somehow managed to bend the yale key. I unbent it and it works now but not before we had to go through the conservatory door because, initially, it didn’t. And so the madness continues …

Joy unbounded.

 

More lovely authors to discover from #instafreebie

Just a quick heads up today about a sci fi and fantasy promo I’m taking part in this week. It’s on now and runs today and tomorrow.

It is organised by Sff author C C Ekeke along with our lovely friends at Instafreebie. A number of authors are offering free books there in exchange for signing up to their mailing lists. If you find the book isn’t your bag you can easily unsubscribe from the list, you should find links on the emails the authors send you. But hopefully you will discover some great books by authors you enjoy hearing from.

To find out more about the promo click on the lovely graphic. And if you are not signed up to Instafreebie and would like to join, you can easily do so here.

Find out more about the promo here:

The promo ends tomorrow so now’s the time to get in quick.

Confessions of shonky housewifery, bad cat mothers and wicked pets. #domesticdisasters

What I am about to confess paints me in a pretty poor light, so if you’re squeamish about people with low hygiene standards it’s probably best you don’t read this. Likewise, if you have the well-trained, well-behaved pets, or the smallest iota of pride in yourself, look away now.

These are photos of my cat, Harrison.

 

Butter wouldn’t melt, would it?

Harrison is very bright and very inquisitive.

Unfortunately, Harrison is also a thief.

He’s not a small time thief either. He has utterly failed to grasp the concept of the word, ‘No’. He is a delinquent. For example, of all the places available to him to go, he chooses to visit the garden of the next door neighbour who is allergic to cats. I have tried to stop him but he climbs a 15ft trellis like a ladder and strolls over. Short of electrifying it I can see no way to stop him. Yet I feel I should be able to make him understand, because I could have done with the other cats I’ve owned. But this one, no. I am a bad cat mother.

McOther is under the cosh at work and yesterday I decided it would be kind to sort out dinner – usually he likes to cook. As I did so, I noticed that a spare steak (barbecued) had been in our Fridge for four days. I couldn’t help thinking that, while I was sorting out left overs lamb spag bol, I could make a steak one too and freeze it for us to eat next week. So I got the plate out. But then McMini wanted something and I went to help him.

Then I realised I’d left a fillet steak, unattended, in the vicinity of our cat. I swiftly returned to the kitchen and …

The steak was still there.

Wow, I thought. Yes, McCat could only be in one place, pestering the poor woman with the allergy next door. Because if he was round ours, the steak would have gone. Either that or he was down the road in Tesco’s trying to get out of the cold meats section with a whole roast chicken. Anyway, I cooked, undisturbed. Then, lulled into a false sense of security by the continued (apparent) absence of our cat, I went and put some onion skins in the compost. When I came back I went to get the steak to mince it up.

It had gone.

‘Bollocks!’ I shouted (quietly because I didn’t want McMini to hear).

‘Have you seen Harrison?’ I asked McMini.

‘No. Did you just say “bollocks” Mummy?’

‘No. Why would I say that? Must go, I think Harrison’s got the steak.’

Hmm, it had been there a moment ago, I knew the little blighter couldn’t have gone far. I ran outside. No sign, then I looked round the side of the porch and there, fillet steak hanging from his mouth, was McCat. He greeted me with a delighted look-how-clever-I-am brrrp.

‘BAD BOY!’ I shouted and smacked him, to what was, quite obviously, his total bemusement.

I seized the steak and went inside. Immediately I was gripped by remorse. He doesn’t understand that hunting on the kitchen side is verboten. I have always been able to make other cats understand very easily but this one has no clue. I examined the steak. It was a little damp one end, with four obvious canine tooth holes but otherwise, apart from two blades of grass on the bottom, it appeared to be undamaged. I had a think and then I cut the dodgy bit off. I felt like an abusive husband trying to make up as I put it in the cat bowl and left it at the perpetrator’s food station. Because bad cat or not, I detest waste.

As for the rest of the steak. I wiped the blades of grass off it, ran it under the tap, patted it dry and, yes, I’m afraid I minced it and bunged it in the sauce!!!!!

Then I boiled the sauce.

Extensively.

For half an hour.

When I say boiled, I mean boiled. So hard that some of it spattered onto the ceiling, which was fun to wipe up.

Then I tasted it.

And it was good. But I had a conundrum. I had made a lovely sauce, but I certainly wouldn’t want a cat mauled steak served up to me at someone else’s house. OK, so one of my Mum’s mates served a pheasant her cat caught but it was not mauled and clearly brought to her as a gift: laid out on the kitchen step, bite-mark free, with nothing more than a wrung neck. That was different.

So I fessed up to McOther. Who refused to eat it. So it really is my lunch for today and next week.

I should throw it away, but it’s tasty. And it is most definitely pasteurised. On the downside, I might get worms because although our cat is wormed regularly he has vile habits, and if he does have worms I’m not sure how boiled worm eggs have to be to die. On the upside, at least if I do get worms, I’ll lose some weight.

So I’ve eaten some.

And it was still good …

But I’ll be checking my stools.

Please don’t tell me I’m about to die.

A little light relief #jollyjapes #sillypictures

Things have been tough recently at home. Just trying to help my parents who are elderly and suffering from a fair bit of memory loss, sorting the care, trying to keep someone between them and the horrible folks who keep ringing them and duping them out of money. We are winning but it’s tough. So I have neglected my blog somewhat. My heart is too full to say much so I’ve not said anything.

Although on the upside I have been making quiet progress on my books, the Box Set of the K’Barthan Series is in final, final, edit and review copies have gone out to my fabulous Reading Ninja team. So until I have more information for you here are some pictures. A kind of trade test transmission*, if you like, only funnier.

It’s Sean the sheep, it’s Sean the sheep … he even hangs around with those who do not … throw food away … ever. He was Meditarranean chicken. Two months ago. Gulp. It wasn’t my fridge.

McMini and I had haircuts last week, I swept up the cuttings and put them in the compost bin. Later when I opened it I found something that … well, check this out. Donald Trump’s ‘hair’ has escaped and is hiding out in our kitchen bin.

 

I don’t think this guy approves of my jokes …

* only a tiny fraction of you will be old enough and British enough to know what this is, by my theory is that even if only one person will get the joke, it should be made!

#girlsnightout Thank you to all my sponsors. Here’s how it went.

So after I banged on about it so much how did the walk go?

Well … I’m swollen, sore and I can hardly walk but … it was a gas! Indeed I’m already plotting ways to do the full 11 miles next year.

Take the first long drag, Northgate Street. It’s straight and about half a mile long. As we crested the hill at the top with a sea of flashing bunny ears behind us the view in front was the same. Flashing bunny ears to the horizon … well … alright then, to the roundabout half a mile away. But definitely as far as the eye could see. 2,370 ladies did the walk and I have to say the atmosphere never really dipped, although it got a bit quieter in the last mile because I had to do the 6 mile course and most of the other ladies seemed to have done the 11 mile so we 6 milers were much thinner on the ground as we came to the end. However what amazed me was how many people on the route came out of their houses to cheer us on. It was pretty epic.

Could my phone do it justice? No but here’s a few pictures anyway.

First up, Team Gymophobics ready for action! Yay!

A quick post on the memory board … I have lost many friends but only know a couple of acquaintances who left via St Nicks. Even so, I felt it was important to say something hospices are, often wonderful places staffed by amazing people.

Then some pictures from registration … first up selfies good reason, right there, why I seldom appear in photographs.

A rare occasion with M T the right side of the law. I have no problems admitting that I’m fat but I know I’m not as fat as I look there.

Selfie while waiting for the off.

The lovely water boys. I’d learned from my experience doing the selfie with the policemen and kept out of the photo.

Waiting for the off … unwiped lense 6.30 – 7.45 it pissed it down.

OK try again, slightly less blurry.

And we’re off … blurry through hand shake and lack of light this time but at least you will get the idea.

My phone isn’t cut out for this, but that’s a solid half a mile of bunny eared ladies.

And again …

And at the 2 mile mark … how cool is that! Thank you to all the lovely folks who cheered us on.

Sadly I have no photos of the end, mainly because I lost the 6 mile group I was with so after saying goodbye to the 11 milers I was on my own and that meant any photos of the end would be of strangers, who might think me odd, or me which would be … well … not good – cf policmen pic.

So was it epic?

Yes. A big thank you everyone who sponsored me and to the various random folks who I did high fives with over garden gates, walls, through windows and in one memorable instance, from a car cruising past the other way – I confess I was slightly worried we might break each other’s arms on that one but it came off fine in the end. Nice crack as the hands connected too! Thanks to everyone everywhere who cheered us on, the whole way round even at the end.

Am I going to do it again?

You bet your sweet arse I will!

Points to take away?

There’s a lot of waiting around and after standing about in the rain for an hour and a half my arthritic knees and pulled hip muscle were pretty much knackered before we began. So next year we’ll meet at the gym, register and get our t-shirts and ears and then go back to mine for a cup of tea for an hour and back up for the warm up at 7.45. By the time we started I was soaked. I also should have worn walking boots. My shoes were comfortable but the soles were not thick enough for walking on pavements and they were soaked to the point of making comedy squelching sounds as I walked – one rather more than the other, thump-squelch, thump-squelch, stylee as I walked down the road.

Classy, as ever.

Despite the pulled hip muscle, wet feet and shonky arthritic knees I was doing pretty well until about 3 miles in when we hit a place called Flemming road where the pavement is basically lots of roots and rocks smoothed to apparent invisibility with asphalt. In the dark it looks skateboard heaven, sleek and smooth but it’s actually proper lumpy: pure pavement moguls. There was a lot of lot of staggering over funny high bits and stumbling into big dips and despite my incredible athletic prowess it took me from no worries to trouble in about 100 yards. This morning when I mentioned it a friend with an artificial leg who lives round there she confirmed that it is, indeed, pavement mogul hell. So Flemming Road needs to be negotiated using the cycle lane on the actual street. Much smoother.

Not pulling a muscle a few days before the walk is also a smart move. And also I strongly recommend avoiding spending the night before any athletic event sleeping on the bathroom floor in a flop sweat, only relieving the tedium by throwing up at intervals.

So that’s it. Minimise the pre off standing, walk on the smooth bits up Flemming Road, sleep rather than hurl the night before and try not to be nursing an injury.

I’m hoping if I do that, next year, I might make it round the 11 mile course … as for this year, I’m really chuffed I made the 6 mile. Thanks to everyone who sponsored me, I made a princely £160. If anyone wants to make a last minute donation, my just giving page is still open:  https://www.justgiving.com/Fundraising/M-T-McGuire

 

The difference between intention and delivery. How not to prepare for a charity walk. #girlsnightout

You may remember, a while back, I posted about a charity walk I decided to join in with for our local hospice. It’s a 6 mile walk through and around the centre of Bury St Edmunds, wearing flashing bunny ears and my pyjamas. Obviously I’m a middle aged lardette with completely fucked knees so this, for me, is …  a suitable challenge. Indeed, my knees were so shite I cannot actually run, not even, literally, to save my life (well … it was my son’s but that’s another story). Although I can walk quite briskly, and I can ride a bike. However, even so, what I’m saying is, I had clocked that if I wanted to walk 6 miles I should probably do some training but at the same time, I was thinking, it’s only six miles, what can go wrong? Quite a lot of things it turns out.

Time, like gravity, has not been my friend on this one and I suddenly realise that the walk is tonight – as ever is. Waterproofs optional but probably required. Note to self, don’t forget the light up stars umbrella.

And guess how much training I’ve done.

Mmm hmm.

In my defence, it was the summer holidays and I did go for a fair few walks, even if I couldn’t get to the gym, but then I got hit by a galloping dog which is surprisingly painful: similar results to a medium/hard cart horse kick although a friend of a friend ended up with a broken leg so I probably got off lightly. It resulted in an impressive 8″x4″ oblong bruise and some pain. While avoiding full impact with the dog I, unfortunately, did something to my hip. So when I went on holidays, where we were going to do a fair bit of walking, the hip based ‘something’ manifested itself, loudly, through the medium of pain. I grimly gritted my teeth and carried on and the pain got worse. Obviously, because I’m a hypo, I convinced myself that the dog bruise had resulted in dvt. I went to the Doctor when I got home.

Actually, I’ve just pulled a muscle in my hip. So obviously I wasn’t being a drama queen about that or anything.

Never mind, my legs hurt all the time and there aren’t many hills, I thought. Surely I can limp round. So I have rested it all week.

A yes, the week’s ‘rest’. Now this is the kind of punishing training schedule I’m talking about.

As the crowning glory of my ‘preparation’. Last night, I went to bed early so that at least, if I wasn’t ready, I was fresh.

But unfortunately, I woke up almost immediately and then, in tag team with my son, spent the rest of the night enjoying some vile sweatathon chuck up bug which involved much enthusiastic driving of the porcelain bus. McOther blissfully slept through it all. Indeed at one point, I woke up on the bathmat in the bathroom – because I’d felt too sick to move back to the bed – bathed in sweat, face stuck to said mat with a pool of my own drool, to hear my son calling me. I called out to McOther, but all that did was bring McMini to our bedroom and from there to the ensuite, where he was treated to the joyous sight of his mother shouting ‘Europe!’ down the big white telephone while trying to hold her hair out of the way of the technicolour torrent, while at the same time, avoid getting any on her pyjamas or the lavatory seat.

On the upside, when I’d finished, I felt so much better and at least I could leave the bathroom long enough to take him upstairs and tuck him in, after which, everyone in the house went to sleep in their own beds until morning.

As McMini started his chuckathon a bit earlier than me he was, as he put it, ‘full of beans’ when he woke up while I definitely felt a bit ropey. However, after a very pleasant hour spent with him, sitting in my bed together reading and … well … he’s 8 so I’m afraid he was also comparing the intensity of our farts – his were smellier so he thinks he’s been iller than me … he’s gone to football club. Meanwhile I, I have gone to ground. Even the cat has let me sit here unmolested so I must look grim although I am feeling a little better.

If the walk had been this morning, I confess, I would have been in trouble. As it is, I’m sure I’ll be fine by tonight although I might give the bacon buttie and the pub at the end a miss. Most of these things only last a day or so. But with the Olympics just finished, and the Paralympics in full swing, it did make me realise how hard it must be for real sportsmen and women when they prepare for their events. All those hours spent training, the special diets, the sleep regimen, trying to time it so they achieve peak fitness on that one specific day and then the big event comes and they have a cold, or a period or a sick bug and suddenly their performance is 10 or 20 percent down or they can’t even compete and it’s all been for nothing. It just makes me admire their dedication and discipline even more than I did before because even after that, despite preparing for every eventuality, they are still at the mercy of random factors.

If you want to donate anything to the hospice for my undertaking this moronic exercise, you’re welcome to do so. I have raised £150 so far, most of it off internet, so at least I’ve reached the minimum target. You can find my just giving page here:

https://www.justgiving.com/Fundraising/M-T-McGuire

My cat has just typed this \\\\\\\\\\\\\\ which is clearly what he thinks of the whole thing and I feel like a gentle snooze with something warm on my stomach so I’m going to follow his example and get some serious rest in.

A bientot.

Meet Bugly: #Whovian #JollyJapes

This is a before and after shot of the new friend McMini and I have created because … I dunno idle thumbs? We have too much time on our hands? Probably a bit of both. We’ve named him Bugly because he’s blummin ugly bless him. Anyway, Bugly is about to go on a road trip, and he’s going to be sending us selfies from all the lovely places he goes to which I will post on here, unless it’s just not funny any more. In which case I won’t.

apologies to everyone who has already seen this, I got my media muddled!

So here we are.

Before .. An ordinary Ood.

After!

Wait! I’m not ready! #GirlsNightOut, 26 days and counting!

You may, or may not, remember various posts I’ve done on here about my lovely bruv who runs marathons despite being ‘middle-aged, unfit and fat’ – his words and it’s a lie because he’s definitely NOT unfit – or that fat. Anyway, having seen his fine and shining example, watched him routinely raise over a grand, and given him a tenner each time, I thought maybe I should have a go.

I mean, how hard can it be?

Yeh. No. Actually I did know the right answer to that one.

As you may be aware, and if you aren’t, I may as well tell you, I am also middle-aged, comfortably upholstered fat, unfit and I have arthritic knees which contain one less sound ligament in each than normal people’s knees. This made me think, some years ago, that maybe I should eschew the idea of marathons or any other kind of run. Because I can’t run, because my knees don’t do that kind of thing any more, I can only walk, so I’d never qualify for a marathon. I wondered if I could find a cause I care about, with an event that has slightly less rigorous entry criteria, and try er hem … walking. Possibly even briskly (if I took enough chocolate along with me to power the effort) but never tracked one down.

I kind of gave up on the idea, I had a baby anyway, and we moved house and did child rearing and stuff. And it was all lost by the wayside for a bit. Except that in recent years, one night a year, hoards of ladies have walked past my house in flashing bunny ears. I wondered:

what on earth they were doing and
whether I should join in.

Two years ago I plucked up courage to open the door and ask one of them what was going on.

‘Girls’ Night Out,’ she said.

None the wiser I went and looked up Girls Night Out on the internet. It’s a sponsored actual walk! For a fantastic place, our local hospice.

Last year I nearly joined in.

This year … I’ve signed up.

It’s gentle 6k ramble round Bury St Edmunds, at night, wearing the aforementioned flashing bunny ears, yes, in the dark, in pyjamas. (Note to self: there are pyjamas and pyjamas, buy a set of pyjamas you can wear in public.) The local Hospice – St Nicholas’ Hospice – were wonderful with a friend’s relly when he was dying and since the question of hospices and hospice care is in my mind at the moment, for my parents, it is something that resonates with me. They ask each walker to try and raise £100 for them.

‘Booyacka!’ I thought when I read that. ‘£100 is easy money! I only need to persuade 20 people to give me a fiver. Surely that can’t be too hard? And 6k? No problem.’

Except that while it might have been easy when I signed up, that was the end of the summer term. After 3 terms of going to the gym 3 times a week with only the shortest of breaks in between I was at the apogee of my yearly fitness levels and the lowest yearly knee pain level. Anyway the walk was ages away, I had time.

However, the date of this walk is now coming up fast. And it’s in the first week of September, at my yearly fitness nadir, after I’ve spent 6 weeks drinking and eating more than usual, going on holiday, doing larks with McMini, ignoring my physiotherapy exercises or doing no exercise at all. Some of my shorts no longer fit and dressing myself each morning is more and more like draping camouflage netting over a Zeppelin.

Ah.

Indeed, now I’ve looked at the map and my thoughts are more like this:

‘Fuckorama! What have I done? Can I even drag my fat bottom 3k, let alone 6?’

Yes, I’m facing Blimpageddon!

And on top of that, I see far fewer folk in the holidays than term so I have failed, epically, in my mission to persuade 20 people to give me a fiver – although one kind soul did give me £10 via Facebook. Thank you, you know who you are.

In short, it looks, very much, as if my effort at charity fundraising is going to die on its arse. But it could be worse! I am sure it will be great fun, we’re going to the pub afterwards and I could have signed up for the 14k route.

So, the walk is on 10th September. I have about 3 weeks to try and get fit. Two of them are summer holiday blimp time so I will have to take moments out of eating, play and high octane resting to kick some donkey and get into shape.

On the up side, according to my Fitbit, I do walk about 5 miles every day, although I’m not 100% certain I can trust it. I mean, it thinks two hours sitting in my car driving to Sussex is a 5 mile run which either means it’s hopelessly inaccurate or it’s picked up on my mood and is lying to me to keep up my morale.

I am going to be updating my progress sporadically on the justgiving page they’ve … well … given me which is here. So if you want to read a bit more about my efforts I’ll be mostly talking about it there or using the #GirlsNightOut hastag on twitter – although, depending on the quality and availability of wi-fi on our upcoming road trip, there may be a two week gap and one week’s intense solid build up as I hone my athletic prowess.

If you want to take a look feel free, you can even sponsor me if you like. That said, sponsorship, though welcome, is certainly not required.

So here we are on Day 1 of my get fit drive. I have achieved 40 squats while cleaning my teeth and taken down a tent. Oh yeh. Go me.