Run baby run

So I'm training for a half marathon. Partly because I got carried away with my bionic woman plans, and partly because someone laughed and said I couldn't do it. They were right. I couldn't.

I've never really run, always having thought I wasn't built for running. But then, chicken and egg, what if I'm not built for running because I don't run?

Having kitted myself out with some proper trainers (apparently I have a natural gait - still doesn't make me a natural runner though), some anti-blister socks, a running t-shirt and some cut-off joggers, I headed out to Arthur's Seat - for a run.

It didn't last long. I couldn't even manage to keep running for one song on the ipod. I swear, I had to stop and splutter my lungs into action again. A couple, whom I'd passed as I started out - and who knew how little I'd actually run, were approaching so I had to hide behind a bush so they wouldn't see me pathetically trying to compose myself. It didn't take long for the self-hatred to kick in, and once it did - it stuck around.

Why am I so crap? Why can't I do this? I'm the most pathetic person ever! Arrrgggh.

I went into work the next day and bemoaned my status to everyone who would listen. Fortunately for me, I sit next to Kirsty. Let me tell you a little something about Kirsty.

You may remember I mentioned I was personality type ENFP? Well, Kirsty is an ESTJ. It's about as opposite as you can get from mine. So where I hate plans, am always late and never want the detail, Kirsty actually says things like: "Well, if you read the Health & Safety policy on that." She's wonderfully gullible too, so I have a blast. Last week, I told her to remember a name for me (I always forget Brenda in the mailroom's surname). "Actually, do you think you could make me a Rolodex for my desk? That would be really handy." "Why don't you just get them all to give you business cards and it would almost make itself?" "But that would involve me having to do something. I'd like you to do it for me." "Well, can't you just use your contacts in Outlook?" "Oh, is that what that is? It's like an electronic Rolodex?" "Yes, Lisa. That's what that is." "Well, do you think you could populate it for me?" "No I bloody well will not. You think I'm your PA." "But you're so good at it Kirsty. You're a natural." "I can't wait until the office move. I hope I'm not sitting next to you."

Today we were on a photoshop training course and she chose to sit next to me (she can't resist it, you see. A moth to the flame). The course organiser asked if I had any experience of photoshop and I explained that I'd only used it to cut out people's faces and put them onto animals' bodies. Then I turned to Kirsty and said: "it was your face by the way." For the rest of the day, she kept asking me what animal I'd stuck her face on.

Anyway, back to the original post, Kirsty is a know-it-all so when I told her about my crap running experience, she told me about mapmyrun.com. You can construct a training plan and plot routes so you know exactly how far you're running. When I got home from work that night, I logged on and got started. I put together an entire training programme and mapped out routes in 0.5K increments all the way up to a half marathon. I started with a kilometre.

I realised I had gone at it all far too quickly that first day, and that, possibly, running to Don't Stop Me Now by Queen was not the best choice for a beginner. I put together a clever playlist on the 'pod that had some good slow and steady beats. It goes like this: Girlfriend in a Coma (The Smiths), Great DJ (Ting Tings), For the Girl (The Fratellis), All These Things That I've Done (The Killers), London Calling (The Clash), That's Entertainment (The Jam). Having now tested it in practice numerous times, I can tell you it's class.

I kept it slow and steady and completed the kilometre without stopping, or dying. I did it every night for a week. I was doing it in under 6 minutes by the end of the week, which isn't too bad considering. Then I moved onto my next route - 2.5K - every night for a week. Averaging 14 minutes. Last night was my first crack at 3K. I did it, but I fought a battle with my brain and my legs until the very end. Mind you, the most difficult part is still trying to put on or take off my sports bra.

I'm starting to really enjoy it (there's this one bit where I run over the bridge and my right foot strikes the road - I love that bit), and I do look forward to getting it done. Also, there's a lot of satisfaction at seeing yourself improve on something on a near daily basis. I feel kind of like I'm taking part in that Faking It programme. They've air-lifted some lard-ass off the sofa and are turning her into a half-marathoner. I'm still not sure I'll convince anyone, but the self-hatred is dissipating.

Mince pies

In my week off, I also managed to get to the optician's for my laser eye surgery appointment. I know loads of people who have been getting this done, including my 70-year old Grandad. I met him on George Street after he'd been in for a check-up and he was walking along the street wearing black-out RayBans. My Grandad has a full head of shiny white hair so he looked a bit like a reversed-out Ray Charles.

Anyway, I figure if my septuagenarian grandfather can do it, so can I. What I was forgetting was that he is minted (mostly because he does the rounds of the pensioners' lunch and dinners and doesn't really spend much money). I however, will have to forgo a lot of cocktails and unnecessary purchases in order to fund mine. Apparently, because I have such enormous pupils I don't qualify for the standard (reasonably priced) treatment. "Yeah, but you just said you put drops in my eyes to purposefully dilate my pupils." "Ha ha. You're funny." Hmmm, I wonder how many people have 'enormous pupils' and 'don't qualify' for the standard treatment.

The optician was manic and seemed to have received some kind of training in order to try to hypnotise me with her eyes, her smile and her quasi-American voice. She kept telling me that the advanced (expensive) treatment was approved by NASA and all the astronauts were having it. "Oh, I'm not an astronaut," I said, "I know I left the occupation field blank but that was just because I don't think you need to know what I do for a living." "Ha ha. You're funny." Also, it's annoying that they give you a price per eye. "So that'll be £1000 per eye." "Actually, I think I'll just get one done." "You just want to do one eye?" "Yeah, I was thinking the left one, and I can wear a patch over the right one. Patches are totally in this season." "Ha ha. You're funny." Honestly, it felt like I was being sold a time-share.

I told them I'd think about it. I want to explore why I don't qualify for the standard treatment. I mean, I'd much rather have the cool astronaut treatment for my enormous pupils (and probably will), but I hate bullshit and I'd like to know if that's what I was getting today.

After the eyes, I'm going to get my teeth whitened, then the botox. I'm toying with the idea of trying to build myself into a bionic woman/Robocop. You know, just for a laugh.

Family history

My week off has been productive, enjoyable and relaxing.

I did fear that it might get off to a bad start when my mum told me she was meeting up with my mother-in-law for lunch on the Monday. I feared for the worst when she suggested I come along too. That's the thing, in-laws can be enough of a hassle when you're married, but when the marriage ends you don't necessarily get rid of them.

I did feel kind of bad since my in-laws always send me birthday, Christmas and Easter cards and the occasional 'thought of you' card in between, whilst I have tended to avoid any sort of contact at all. Not because I'm being rude or nasty, but just because it's for the best.

Anyway, as my mum pointed out to me, I'm in a completely different place now, and so much happier with my life that it couldn't really do me any harm. So I agreed to go along. I was glad I did. My mother-in-law was so thrilled to see me, I felt like I'd made her year. And I must admit, I rather enjoyed casually dropping into conversation all the things I'd managed to do in the last 3 years:

• buy my own flat
• earn almost £20,000 more
• write a book
• get a whole new set of friends
• compile my family history
• travel to Mexico, New York (twice), Hong Kong, Thailand, Cambodia, Santorini, Las Vegas, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Cook Islands, New Zealand and Australia
• start enjoying my life

Somewhat annoyingly, she's still looking for a nice neat explanation for why it all ended. She seems to like the idea that it was a 'youthful romance that just went on too long'. It's nice, but it's nonsense. Unfortunately, she's asking the wrong person. Like her, I don't have any answers. Unlike her, I gave up on looking for them a while back. The only thing I could tell her for sure is that I am happier than I've ever been before, and for the first time since my childhood I actually feel like I'm living the life I wanted to. That seemed to comfort her.

On Wednesday, I went off to the National Registrar's Office in pursuit of my ancestors. I got there at 0915 and was assigned a desk. I had a computer in front of me and access to pretty much any records I wanted to look at. So what did I do when faced with the possibility of looking up anything I wanted to? I searched for myself. I was berating myself even whilst I was doing it. You know all about you. And you actually have a copy of your birth certificate in the flat. What the hell are you doing? Ooh, ooh, ooh, look, I'm there. I exist. After indulging myself with myself, I proceeded to do some general research and then get to the bottom of some irksome points.

Previously I'd thought my ancestors all came from Fife and Ireland, but it's a bit more varied than that - thankfully. My mum's dad's mum's family all come from Clackmannanshire. My dad's mum's mum's side all come from places like Banff, Buchan and Inverallochy. And my dad's dad's mum's side come from East Lothian. My great great great grandparents actually got married in Constitution Street in Leith, which is a street I used to walk down every day on my way to work. I think that's quite cool.

Remember I told you about the rumoured suicide of my great great grandad? Well, I found it. He did commit suicide by coal gas poisoning. He was 70 years old. I thought that was quite unusual. The only old person I know who committed suicide was Brooks in The Shawshank Redemption and that was because he'd been on the inside for over 40 years and couldn't handle modern life. On closer inspection of the certificate, it appeared my great great grandad had malignant prostititis. I've reasoned that he was in so much agony there was no hope of relief other than death itself. It's very sad though.

The other interesting bit of information/gossip was that I found a correction entry for my great great great grandad's birth. I'd already tracked down his birth certificate and noted there was no father listed. Written under his name was the word ILLEGITIMATE. Anyway, this correction entry is like a little book all in itself. Apparently, about a year after he was born, his mum actioned a case in the Cupar Sheriff Court to have an 'Alexander Gilmour' named as his father. The court sided with her. I want to know how you go about proving something like that in 1862. I mean, there's no Jerry Springer DNA test. There's no cameras or mobile phones to record any kind of contact. How did they do it? Also, the Gilmours are the family that owned (and still own) the 'big hoose' in Largoward. High society scandal.

I imagined that if I were famous and taking part in that BBC programme about tracing your relatives that this would be the bit where I would excuse myself and wander off. The camera would zoom in on me and I'd be wiping away a tear and trying to compose myself.