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.

The elephant at the funeral

As a general rule, funerals are not amusing.

But if it's a more distant family member who had been suffering for quite sometime and you're not as grief-stricken as you might be in other cases, and you couple that with the fact you've got a family like mine in attendance ... well then, there will probably be, at least at some point, embarrassed giggling.

At the end of March my Gran's older sister died. I got a text from my mum at work. It was mostly about something else but had that news tagged onto the end of it in a kind of Trevor MacDonald 'And finally' type way.

I sent a text back asking my mum if she thought I should go to the funeral. 'If you can, that would be best' came the reply. My mum doesn't normally make any demands of me so that was akin to her saying 'yes, you really should.'

Luckily, the funeral was on Easter Monday and I was off work so I didn't have to use one of my holidays. Then it struck me that the funeral would be in the church. I mean the church. It was a major thing for me because the last time I was in that church was for my own wedding. I hadn't set foot in it since that day and I wasn't sure how I'd react. Maybe I'd get there and I wouldn't be able to do it. Maybe I'd start crying. Well, crying at a funeral that's not too weird. Maybe I'd be OK.

I went out to Katy's leaving night on the Friday and noticed a missed call from my mum on my way home. I called her back.

Mum: I didn't want to ask you.
Me: Ask me what?
Mum: I didn't want to ask you, but you're dad said I should let you decide.
Me: Decide what?
Mum: Your gran asked your dad if you'd say a few words about her sister at the funeral.
Me: What? Seriously?
Mum: I know. I know. I didn't want to ask you.
Me: Doesn't gran think it might be hard enough for me coming back to the church without having to walk down the aisle, stand up on the altar and face everyone?
Mum: I know darling. I don't think you should do it. It's far too much for you.
Me: It is. I thought I was doing really well with actually going. Now if I don't do this, I'll feel like a big failure.
Mum: You're not a failure. I'll just say that you're not doing it.
Me: Yeah. Besides, I don't even really know Gran's sister. What would I say? I normally just make stuff up when I have to speak, but that's not really appropriate at a funeral. I'd probably end up saying something like: 'It's a little known fact, but Margaret was a talented gymnast who was on her way to competing at the Rome Olympics'. I mean, that's interesting and poetic, and good speech material, but it's not true.

In the end, the funeral was fine and there was no swell of nostalgia or pain or any feeling at all really, when I walked into the church. I was sitting next to my dad who nudged me when the priest walked past.

Me: What is it?
Dad: Did the priest give you a wee nod there?
Me: I don't think so. I wasn't really looking.
Dad: Aye, aye, he was. He just gave you a wee nod there as went past just to say 'I see you and I know you and eh, thanks for coming and I acknowledge you and eh, aye'.
Me: Right.

At the graveside I was standing with Liam and my younger cousins Claire, Michael and Nicole. Liam asked Claire who the guy with my cousin Nicolas was. "That's his pal George," Michael said. "He brought his friend to his Gran's sister's funeral? What's going on there?" "I know," said Michael, "it looks a bit gay eh?" "I'll say" said Liam. Michael shouted Nicolas over. "Nick, Nick, where's ... eh ... George?" Nicolas came over. "Eh, he's over there. How?" "Aye, we're just thinking it looks a bit gay eh?" "Piss off."

Afterwards we went to the golf club for tea and sandwiches. I didn't really want to be there, but thought it would be rude if I didn't show face, especially as my mum and dad had left for Barcelona after the church service. I was sitting at the end of a long table full of my Gran's sisters-in-law and cousins. Thankfully, Liam, Claire and Cameron were next to me.

Isobel, my auntie Karen's mother-in-law, smiled and said 'you're looking well Lisa'. I smiled back, said thanks and hoped nobody else would take too much notice of me. However, with my dad's auntie Margaret from Zambia in attendance there was never going to be any chance of that. In a booming theatrical voice (think Elaine C Smith after 35 years of White Mischief in the African sun) and from the other end of the table she said "And when do we get to read the book you've written about that bastard?"

My cousin Claire has always had the rather impressive ability of being able to speak without moving her lips at all. "Oh my God, oh my God, I can't believe this. This is excruciating. She better stop now. Oh my God, Lis. Oh my God." Liam, my wonderfully supportive baby brother, was creasing himself with laughter. "Haha. Quality."

I smiled back at her. "It's not about him," I said, "it's about me."

"Good for you. Stick it right up him." I couldn't help but laugh at that one. "This is unbelievable," Claire said to me, still without moving her lips. "Does it even have to be mentioned at all?" Margaret must have made a few more comments that I didn't hear, because my gran put on her firm tone when she said: "Margaret."

My gran decided to take this opportunity to apologise for asking me to speak at the mass for her sister. "I just wasn't thinking. And then when your dad said ... I just couldn't get over it. I was so angry at myself for not thinking. The priest was round last night and I said 'Oh Father, you'll never believe what I've gone and done. I wasn't even realising this would be her first time back in the Church'. He was asking after you, you know. He was wondering how you're getting on and if you've met someone else yet."

(I'd heard about priests not giving you long between children, but I figured they'd take a different stance on time between husbands. Obviously, I'd figured wrong.)

"And I just said 'well no Father. Not yet.' And he said to me: 'but she will. She's a lovely girl and she'll get somebody nice I'm sure of it.' So there you are." Liam was laughing so hard some of his cider was running out from his mouth. Claire had gone manic with embarrassment for me and was saying things like: "Lis, I need to get you out of here. This is unbelievable. We'll just get up and walk towards that door. I've seen the quickest route and we can just go for it."

My gran wasn't done though. She put her hand on top of mine and said: "The Father would like to see you married again. And I'd like to see you married again." (I'm thinking 'oh my God, why??? Why would you wish that on me? I'm happy. I'm really happy. I'm happy with my freedom and my lack of responsibility and my casual, albeit sometimes embarrassing, sexual encounters'.)

Everyone at the table was listening by this point and expressing various degrees of the pity head tilt. My Gran's brother had joined the table and said in extreme disbelief: "Have you not met anyone new yet?" "Hahaha (nervous laughter) ... not especially no." He turned to the rest of the table and said: "you sometimes find that with the really braw lassies though don't you? It's sometimes the really bonnie ones that struggle." At this point Liam spat out his drink and was in the grip of a full-on belly laugh. I wanted nothing more than to stand up and point out that I wasn't struggling, I was actually choosing not to get too involved with anyone, and to give my gran a detailed list of exactly what I'd been up to so she could pass it on to the Priest.

But I just smiled and said "thanks uncle Mike, there's a compliment in there somewhere ... I think."

I carried a watermelon

I am on holiday this week and enjoying it.

I was badly in need of it. The late nights and stupidly early rises had taken their toll. I never realise how stressed and run down I am until my body does something to spell it out for me. Sometimes it makes me vomit, sometimes it throws my cycle off kilter (sometimes it does both those things at the same time, which is really scary and even more stressful), sometimes it gives me an eczema-type thing on my knuckles, but this time it gave me red blotches up my neck and behind my ears. Strange but true.

At work I was furiously trying to get everything tied up before I went off on holiday. This included contract/cost negotiations with one agency and two agencies who moan about the slightest change of plan. Honestly. When I invite agencies to pitch for me in future, one of the things I'm going to be looking for is someone who is as cool under pressure as I am. Yes, I may be a blotchy-necked stress-head, but no one would know it from speaking to me.

The social side of things was frantic too, though considerably more enjoyable. Mog and I had dinner and cocktails at the Dome last Wednesday and I tried to convince her to start wearing an orthopaedic shoe. I toyed with the idea of leaving my car on George Street and having a few more, but I'd have had to get up ridiculously early to move it so I was sensible and resisted.

On Thursday night, I met up with Cat, Cabey and Alan from work for the pub quiz. When I arrived, Cat pointed out that the rest of the people looked quite geeky and clever and the only hope for us was that I flashed them. I told her that she was sorely underestimating my pub quiz skills. Alas, I never got a chance to wow them as the quiz never happened. We made up for it by making our way through some chili nachos and a significant amount of alcohol. We tried to come up with a team name for future, but struggled. Cat suggested we choose one word which is always in our team name and then the rest of it changes every week. Alan suggested we use the word 'bint'. So I suggested we replace a word from a famous movie title with the word 'bint' every week. We tested it out on some James Bond films to see how it would work (Dr Bint, Bintfinger, On Her Bint's Secret Service, The Bint with the Golden Gun (or The Man with the Golden Bint), The Bint who Loved Me and Bintpussy).

Friday night was Anne and David's leaving night. I managed to get there before eight o'clock. I spent most of the night talking to Angela and Susie whilst fondling the lining of a guy called Harvard's jacket, which was hanging on the back of the sofa we were sitting on. Sometime after midnight on Easter Road I was amazed that, as merry as she was, Anne was still able to dismiss a guy with a very cool one-liner. Impressive. I told her this and she said 'yeah. I like how your way of handling it was just to edge yourself away from the situation and leave me to deal with it.'

It's true, I am rubbish in these situations. I normally get stuck for ages trying to politely tell someone to get lost. Drunk people scare me though and being smart in these situations reminds me of growing up in Fife and saying the wrong thing to a girl who accused me of flirting with her boyfriend at Jackie-O's. I pointed out to her that her boyfriend didn't have any teeth so he wasn't really what I considered to be 'a catch' and surely she must be mistaken. She told me that she was going to 'rip the fiss aff' me, which translates as 'rip your face off'. I spent the rest of the night in fear for both myself and my Jaegar mini-dress.

Since then I've come to rely on my friends to help me out of awkward situations. Sinead is classic with her no-nonsense approach. In San Francisco I got stopped by two guys asking where I was from and what I was up to and whether I'd like to go for a drink. Sinead had kept walking, turned around, shook her head, walked back to us and said: "Lis, do you have any intention of having sex with these guys?" The three of us were totally shocked. "No, of course not ..." "Well come on then."

On Saturday I woke up when I heard someone leaving a message on my answer machine. I looked up at the clock. 2:22pm. I don't think I've ever slept in that late in my life. I was thoroughly disgusted with myself and slightly anxious that I might be ill. Anyway, it made for a very weird day. By the time I'd showered and got dressed and had breakfast, it was about four o'clock. I had just enough time to run down to the framers to collect my pictures. I hurried round Sainsbury's and bumped into a guy from work.

I hate bumping into people from work in the supermarket. It's always awkward and it's always when you're buying tampons. (And now that I know I buy more than the average woman, it makes me feel even more weird. When Sinead and I did a communal toiletries shop for our RTW trip, Sinead asked if I was planning on having a hemorrhage.) So anyway, he said: "Hi Lisa." And I said "Hi" back. That's all you really need to say isn't it? But because he probably felt awkward, he clearly felt he had to say something else. So he said: "Doing your weekly shop?" What, in the supermarket? I mean, what are you supposed to say to that?

Well, you could help him out - even if it means lying - by saying "yes". At which point he would probably look at my basket (if he hadn't already) and see that it contained only tampons. Then he would probably say "bye" and I'd say "bye". So our full interaction would have consisted of:

Him: Hi Lisa
Me: Hi
Him: Doing your weekly shop?
Me: Yes.
Him: (On scan of basket he sees tampons) Bye
Me: Bye

How pointless and shit is that? Why didn't he just leave it at "Hi"?

Now in these situations, my head is always running a bit further ahead and I'd have known that the 'yes' answer would lead to a pointless and shit conversation and he'd get out to the car park and start banging his head off the steering wheel repeating "Doing your weekly shop?" like it was the 'watermelon' line from Dirty Dancing. So I wanted it to be less awkward somehow.

The thing is, when I feel awkward I respond by talking far too much and telling people way more than they want or need to know. For example, when I was last at the doctors having a smear test, the doctor said "you have excellent muscle control", which freaked me right out. I mean, like it's not embarrassing enough for the patient, they now feel they have to add commentary. I manically said it was probably on account of my pilates classes and proceeded to tell her absolutely everything there is to know about pilates. I must have gone on about it for almost 20 minutes.

Meanwhile back at the supermarket check-out, instead of saying 'yes', I decided to launch into a big explanation that went a bit like this: "No. No, I just popped in to get a few bits and pieces. Well, you know, like tampons (now throwing them over my shoulder onto the conveyor belt). I get my shopping delivered cause, you know, it's better for the environment and I'm quite busy, and the delivery guy is a hottie. I mean he's really young, but he's quite hot. But he's not that young because he drives the van so he has to be at least 17. Ha ha ha."

So then I went out to the car park and banged my head off the steering wheel.

Inbreeding

Last Wednesday I discovered why I am enjoying work so much.

Everyone in our team was on a half-day Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI) course. I had confirmed, that which I already knew. I am an ENFP. A big one. It means I have lots of ideas that I become quite passionate about, but I don't really like data or details or deadlines. Apparently my preference for "not planning nor organising nor being pinned down" is off the scale. The head of the department looked at this and said: "that's interesting, considering the job you're doing. You must be very good at pretending to be something else." Too true.

Even better, my boss is an ENFP too. And, in our wider team, there are so many other ENFPs that our team type is also ENFP. It's like I've been welcomed home.

A common feature of people given those four letters is their hatred of routine. I hate routine. Although I have to admit I feel so much more in control when I adopt one. I find it difficult to choose my lunch every day. Even when I mix it up a bit and try the deli instead of the cafeteria or Tesco, I'm still paralysed at the point of having to choose something. It all feels so boring and same-y. On Tuesday, we went to the cafeteria and I said to Alice: "Sometimes I feel like my whole life is a baked potato. Maybe if I had more drama in my lunch I wouldn't have to inject so much ...

...into the rest of my life." "Maybe Lisa. Maybe."

Last weekend I spent practically the whole of Sunday on the computer researching my ancestry. This was after I'd roamed around Restalrig trying to find my car. I'd never been to Restalrig before so that was ... interesting. The other side of the stadium is like a whole different world.

Sunday had started when I got up and made breakfast for 'Dave' and I. Whilst we were arguing about long-life shopping bags, my blackberry buzzed and he called me a 'corporate whore'. It's all so romantic I'm fighting to contain my flowery prose. Anyway, he was heading home and I was going to buy something nice for my lunch to reward myself for all the family history research I was going to be doing.

When we got outside, I noticed that there were no cars in the street and realised there must be a football match on. My car wasn't there either. 'Dave' headed on home and I went to ask the policeman where my car was. "What's your registration?" "Er ... no." I replied shaking my head. I honestly don't know what my car registration is. Pathetic. But as I said at the start of this entry, I'm not so hot on the details.

"Can you phone your partner to get it?"
"It's OK, I've got a note of it in the flat. I'll just pop up and get it."
"Just give your partner a call, it'll be quicker."
"Er ... I don't have a 'partner'."
"Oh, right, was that not your partner? I thought ..."
"He's not my 'partner'."
"Oh. OK. He looked like he might be your partner."
"Well he's not. It's not that .... Anyway, it's my flat and it's my car and he doesn't know any more about it than I do. OK?"
"OK."
"I'll just go get that reg number for you."
"Well if you tell me what kind of car it is that'll do."

Honestly! He told me the car had been removed to Marionville Road and that would take about 15 minutes to walk to.

"I'll give you a lift if you like."
"No thanks. I'm fine with walking."
"But it's raining. I'll give you a wee lift round."
"No. It's fine. I could do with the exercise."

After picking up my car and my lunch, I set about the family history research. My paternal grandfather's mum's side of the family had been causing me problems. I'd located her death certificate and got her parents' names from that, but I couldn't find their marriage certificate. They've recently opened up a whole new set of records so I was able to get my great-grandparents' wedding certificate for 1932. This gave the same names for my great-great grandparents, but didn't give their wedding date ... because they never got married. (Oooh! How unconventional. I love it. However, that said, marriage certificates do make family history research much easier. So I now have a second pro for marriage. The first being that a well-crafted gift and guest list can furnish your entire flat. Still, that's 2 pros against 304 cons.) Apparently, my great-great grandad later committed suicide by sticking his head in a gas oven, but I've yet to find anything to support this. Maybe he did get married after all.

My mum's dad's side of the family is a headache too. They are all called James and Christina Thomson. All of them. So you get a guy called James Thomson marrying a woman called Christina Thomson (yes, same surname) and his parents are listed on his wedding certificate as James Thomson and Christina Thomson (nee Thomson), and her parents are listed as James and Christina Thomson (nee Thomson). Arrrggghhh! I phoned my mum to tell her that I've finally found an explanation for her squint pinky fingers. Disturbing. My great-great-great-great grandad on this side died of 'softening of the brain caused by sunstroke'. In Buckhaven?

Anyway, that's enough for now. I'll tell you about my embarrassing toe cleavage problems (no doubt due to the horrific levels of inbreeding amongst my ancestors) next time.

When beauty regimens go bad

Two months ago this guy came round to mine. Don't get too excited, I did know him - we'd been out a few times (a decent number of times). Let's call him Dave. I did. It's not his name and he did get quite annoyed, but names have never been my strong point.

Anyway, we had a lovely evening. He cooked. We skipped dessert. We headed through to the bedroom (insert 80s synth and saxophone music here). We were standing by the bed, I was facing 'Dave'. I reached down behind me and pulled back the duvet. My bedspread is red (this isn't just girly detail by the way, it's an important factor). Suddenly, Dave stopped kissing me. I noticed his expression had changed.

"What is it?" I asked.
He moved his head forward to indicate in the direction of the bed. "Eh, what's that?"
I froze. Even though I knew there was nothing weird or dodgy in my bed, I was reluctant to turn around. Eventually I did and I was totally shocked by what I saw.

There were numerous 'white patches' on my red fitted sheet. 'Oh my God, what the hell is that' I silently floundered. "Erm ... eh ... it's not what it looks like," I finally managed.

"Well, that is what it looks like."
"Well, it's not. It's definitely not. I mean I haven't. And if I had, I would have washed the sheets."
"Well, what is it then?"

My mind ticked over furiously. I couldn't think what it might be. C'mon, c'mon, what is it. After what seemed like an eternity, it finally clicked into place.

"Aha," I ventured victoriously. I turned back to face Dave with a proud smile. "It's heel cream!" I remembered that I'd been putting it on my heels every night. You're supposed to put socks on after you've applied it, but I loathe wearing socks in bed so I'd opted to dangle my feet over the edge until it had been absorbed. Obviously, I hadn't waited long enough and some of it had been absorbed by my sheets.

"Heel cream? What the fuck is heel cream?"
"It's cream, for putting on your heels so they're all silky and smooth in the summer."

Dave didn't look convinced.

"Look! I'll show you." I pulled open the top drawer on my bedside table and pulled out the heel cream. "See?" I said rattling the box.

He wasn't looking at me. He was staring at my open drawer. I looked down.

Next to the heel cream were three boxes of condoms.

"There was a three for two offer on at Boots," I offered sheepishly.

He burst out laughing and we lay down on the bed.

"I'm definitely not going to have to pay you after this am I?"

We ended up laughing ourselves to sleep.