London Marathon 2022 – HPT update

An update. I’ve been trying to remain positive, religiously following advice and completing the exercises prescribed by the physio, it’s incredibly slow process but that’s to be expected with a tendon injury.

Since my last post, I’ve experienced a lot of emotions. Mainly frustration that my body is taking so long to heal but also that of letting down the charity I’m scheduled to run for, the people that have so kindly sponsored me to date and my workplace who have publicised my fundraising with an additional offer of £250 towards the fundraising total if I complete the marathon (along with four others from the company). I decided it would be fairer to speak to the charity and let them know my situation, they were so lovely! The lady investigated other options including allowing me to defer my place to next year which would have been a great option. Unfortunately, that wasn’t possible and finding someone else to run wasn’t looking hopeful either. In parallel, I contacted the comms team at work to remove my name from the list while we thought of other options and suggested I could walk the route if we didn’t come up with any other ideas, pain permitting.

Then it struck me… My husband could run in my place if I was unable! This seemed like the perfect solution to me. Many of the people that sponsored me would have sponsored him and the charity would not be let down. I’d still have the disappointment of not receiving the donation from work and dealing with the frequent “ohh, I hear you’re running the marathon” conversations (along with the huge frustration of listening to how others’ training was going) but it was a plan that also allowed a slight glimmer of hope for me in case I made a miraculous recovery. This was in May and the plan wasn’t to start until 16th June, so all good.

Two obstacles, agreement from the charity and agreement from my husband. My husband is not a runner. He’s not a runner but he was willing to complete the 16 week beginner training plan if it meant I had longer to formulate a plan. What an amazing thing to do! We discussed how he would feel if he started the training and then I felt I could at least make it around the course, would he be disappointed? He said no and that he should probably get fitter anyway so that was perfect.

In the meantime, I visited the charity and saw the work they did first-hand. The opportunity to ask questions was fantastic and it was incredible to see the resources available to support people with mental and/or physical disabilities, have a look: It was a great experience and really made me determined to raise more and get around the course, even if I had to walk. Publicity photos were taken and a new sense of pressure to perform ensued.

That’s me, bottom left and bottom right, looking but not feeling the part

As the weeks ticked by, the pain changed but didn’t reduce. I could feel my hamstring getting stronger but it was constantly tight. Foam rollering didn’t really help and neither did stretches. My impatience got the better of me and on 23rd May I went for a little run, just to see how it felt. I ran a mile at slow pace, no pain while running but excruciating immediately after.

Unauthorised run

I told the physio when I saw him next, he didn’t seem overly impressed but not entirely surprised, he added some Nordics to the single leg bridges and suggested I could try some short runs after my next appointment. My next appointment was on the 28th June.

Fast forward a few weeks and with the 16 week training plan start date already having passed, I visited the physio again and asked the dreaded question “what are my chances of taking part in the London Marathon, still slim to none?”. His response was “slim but not none, we need to see how you get on with the next set of exercises”. My hamstring was stronger than it had been and this gave me hope. With a new exercise regime, to include super short (5 minute) runs over the next three weeks. I knew there wasn’t time to train properly to achieve a “good” marathon time but even completing a marathon is a huge achievement that many will not experience in a lifetime. Walking, jogging, Jeffing… but possible!

I came home, new plan in hand and (dare I say it) excited that I may be on the mend.

Next set

After putting the children to bed, I changed into my running things and set out. The rain was pouring and the recent warm weather was replaced with a blustery cold wind but I didn’t care, I was running for five whole minutes! It felt good to be out, my legs still worked, my lungs weren’t quite as cooperative but I was running and I didn’t feel immediate pain.

Physio approved run 1

Very sore the next day but the physio suggested I’d feel this way so I’m blindly trusting him and assuming it’s ok for now. Knowing whether the marathon is still an option is a little way off, but I’m enthused and remaining positive that I’ll at least be mobile, if nothing else.

Next dilemma… It turns out my husband is now hugely motivated to run the marathon. He’ll certainly be fitter than me, he’s following the plan more stringently than I ever thought he would and is enjoying it, which is great. I don’t feel I can take that away from him, especially after he selflessly offered to train to give me longer to heal.

So, pros and cons (love a list), assuming I’m capable of getting around the course:


  1. I’ll share a marathon day with my dear friend who, after all, is the reason I signed up in the first place
  2. The huge achievement of finishing a marathon (although there are numerous others I could enter)
  3. Completing the London Marathon has always been a dream (and after many, many ballot rejections, I never thought would be possible)
  4. An additional £250 towards the charity from my workplace


  1. Potential injury niggles
  2. May never have the chance to run London again
  3. It won’t be the experience I’d hoped it be (won’t be fully fit)
  4. Upsetting my husband

Pretty even at the moment, I guess I’ll just have to see how my (ridiculously short, for someone hoping to run a marathon in 95 days) runs go over the next few weeks.

Fingers crossed!


London Marathon 2022 – Proximal Hamstring Tendinopathy

Since my last post I’ve had two further appointments with the physio and a turbulent ride on the emotional roller coaster.

Great news at the first appointment where the physio thinks the leg kicks have helped detach/remove(?) the adhesions to my sciatic nerve. Not such great news at the second appointment, diagnosis can’t be pinpointed exactly because I haven’t had a scan to confirm but it’s likely to be proximal hamstring tendonitis (PHT). Knowing how frustrating it must be for a physio to hear the question, I asked anyway “ how long do you think it’ll take to heal?”. As expected, there was no definite answer. He did confide that he’s suffering from the same thing from a sports injury he sustained a week before Christmas. I wonder if my injury, which I believe stems from a fall in the garden may be different, I hope so.

Some days the pain is so extreme, I can’t sit down for more than 10 minutes and I can’t see how this will be resolved in time to train for the marathon.

I’ve moved from frantically Googling “how long does PHT take to heal?”, to “Can I still run with PHT?”. I’ve lost hours to the internet searching for a ray of hope, there are some positive outlooks but in general there’s so much doom and gloom. I did find a useful website which describes the pain as if I’d written it myself, searching for the “can I speed up recovery” section lead me to the many comments from other sufferers. Oh my goodness. Honestly, I understand the frustration but (after reading every comment) I left the site feeling utterly depressed and hopeless, if you’d like to know more about hamstring tendinopathy, I highly recommend the article… Just stop at the comments:

Trying to remain positive, I’m focusing on the fact that, much like me, people are probably searching for answers because they’re in pain and add their comments when they came across the article. The recovered, pain free and active won’t be searching and commenting… probably. If you’re one of the recovered, please let me know!

While I complete my prescribed exercises religiously and rely on Naproxen to ease some of the pain, I wonder if I should call the charity I’m running for to let them know there’s a chance I may not be able to run for them, I’d be letting them down but they’d still get the sponsorship money I’d raised so far and maybe another runner may be able to take my place and raise even more. Then I’d *only* be letting down the people who have kindly and generously donated and my friend, the reason I signed up in the first place – to help her with her training. Some days are better than others, and it is still early days so there’s hope (come on positivity), I’d love to run the London Marathon, I’m emotional every time I see a London landmark on the TV, a post on social media about how training is going or simply see someone running.

In the meantime, I’m attempting to cross train. Regularly using my girly weights trying to strengthen my core (I also found an unwanted elliptical cross-trainer on Market Place but I’m too scared it will damage me further at the moment).

It’s not knowing that’s the worst. If someone told me today, you can’t do this, at least I’d know. I’d be disappointed and upset but I’d adjust. At the moment, there’s a small glimmer of hope that I’ll hold onto. The physio suggested I’d know for sure at the beginning of June – if I can hold a slow 15 minute training jog. There is hope.

Stay positive!

Injury strikes… so soon – London Marathon 2022


It was supposed to be the Castle Hill Corker today, a 10K trail run around a local picturesque estate. Unfortunately, storm Eunice had other ideas and brought trees down, the event was cancelled so I went for a 10 mile run instead, absolutely stunning weather for it. Hamstring felt a little niggly when I set out but nothing painful so I continued on. At 7K I was feeling good, considered making it a half marathon and decided how and where to extend the route. At 10K the niggle was worsening so I came straight back. Should have stopped.


Very sore hamstring today. It was twinging yesterday but it’s almost unbearable today. Infuriated with myself as I’ve been running for a couple of year with no injuries… Get a marathon slot and the injuries start rolling in. Must stay positive, there’s still plenty of time to heal and train, I’ll take it easy for a few days.


Really hobbling today, struggled for a lunchtime walk. A friend recommended a physio, I call and am lucky enough to get a cancellation on Thursday morning.


Off to the physio this morning, thank goodness. Lots of questions, noticing of a bruise and a good poke and prod later I’m given a set of three exercises to do each day. Probably a torn hamstring, potentially nerve damage. No running for 2-8 weeks. Back next Friday to see if it can be diagnosed any further. Feeling deflated and a bit low. Don’t want to let anyone down, especially the Calvert Trust and all the wonderful people that have sponsored me so far.

Love the little stick men!

Got home, had a look for said bruise, it’s tiny. Teeny tiny – for the amount of pain, I wanted it to be MASSIVE, black and blue, but no, even had to circle it so it can be seen:


Incredibly achy, in my glues as well as hamstring today, hurts to sit, stand and move! Paranoid I have nerve damage which will take forever to heal and anxious not to let the Calvert Trust down. Called the physio to see if I’m supposed to hurt this much, turns out it’s perfectly normal and I was being paranoid.

Luckily I have a good distraction today, off to court this morning to observe magistrates hearings… Turns out their chairs are more uncomfortable than school chairs, a brilliant experience though, food for thought.


I’ve been using running to calm any anxieties I may have, reading/scrolling/trying new (static) things occupies me for a short while but it doesn’t expel any energy or release any endorphins. I found myself aggressively vacuuming before work today, managed to vacuum a small ember from the fire and noticed poor Henry glowing. Quickly moved him outside and opened him up, he survived with minor melting and requiring a new hoover bag. Roll on good news from the physio.


Walked the children to school this morning and was in agony all day. Sitting, standing, moving were all uncomfortable, trying to get to sleep was a nightmare. in my wakefulness, I remembered I’d fallen over in January while trying to drag a branch up the drive, it gave way and I landed with force on wooden boarder, I nearly passed out at the time and the resulting haematoma lasted weeks, must remember to tell the physio.


Had a second physio session today, remembered to mention the fall. He performed the same tests as before then manipulated my pectineus muscle (with his elbow!) which he thought may have adhered to my sciatic nerve – it was a little uncomfortable but I could move my leg much further after – happy! A different set of exercises this time and another session booked in on the 18th March.


I woke up and felt relatively good today, the blue skies and sunshine were definite motivators. I wanted to run and felt as though it’d be possible, it’s off to work for me this morning though. Fast forward a few hours and I’m in a lot of pain after a lunchtime walk around the block. Perhaps the road to recovery won’t be as simple as I’d hoped.

London Marathon 2022 – humbled by my children


My Just Giving page went live today. I came home from work and showed the children (William, 6 and Florence, 4) the page and explained a little about the marathon, who the Calvert Trust were and what they do as a charity.

On hearing about the Calvert Trust and after showing the children the website and some photos, they both went off to the other room and came back with their ‘egg money’*, wanting to donate it to help people less fortunate than themselves. They were absolutely insistent and although I didn’t want to take their savings, I honestly couldn’t be prouder of them and the kind souls they are becoming. Perhaps my parenting isn’t that bad after all.

*When we bought the house, it came with a chicken coop and an old girl which William decided to call Buck-Buck because of the screech she makes. Over the next few months we got four more chickens to keep Buck-Buck company, all lay intermittently, and, trying to teach the children the value of money, we explained they could sell the eggs for £1 a box and save up for a toy they both agreed on.

London Marathon 2022


I work from home on Wednesdays and had been out for a little mind clearing 5K run at lunchtime. On my return there was an email from internal comms:

Sent: 09 February 2022 13:12
Subject: Calling all keen runners – two London Marathon places up for grabs for the Calvert Trust

The email said the slots were on a first come, first served basis. Knowing I’d already committed to helping my wonderful friend, Claire train for the London Marathon, I hit reply thinking if it was meant to be, it would be. Within a few minutes, I’d received a reply stating a place was mine. I was excited, and nervous and felt a little bit sick at the thought of having to raise £1600, knowing full well, I’m not a ‘peopley person’.

Before I could change my mind, I’d filled out the form and returned it with the £100 registration fee.

Over the next few days, I learned that four more people from work had gained marathon places. This was great news, more people to support on the journey… But also, more competition in terms of nabbing people for sponsorship. My people circle is small!

Talking about how to fundraise with a colleague, it dawned on me that my transferrable skills, common sense (mostly) didn’t really transfer into practical skills I could offer for sponsorship. I’ll have to up my peopling game and that terrifies me. This marathon is going to be more than just a running event.

It’s been a while

It’s been a while since I felt the need / have had the time to write. Life has been a whirlwind, my little people aren’t as little, there’s been a global pandemic, we’ve moved house, Russia is being Russia and I’ve signed up to run the London Marathon. Madness.

I’ve chosen to write a little about what’s going on to provide myself with reflection. I’ll jump around a lot, bear with me, it may provide context at some point.

Firstly, the small ones are growing up. My eldest, William is 6 and youngest, Florence will be 5 on Sunday. While I loved the squidgy babies (and knowledge they’d be where you’d put them down two minutes ago), I don’t miss the sleepless nights. William didn’t consistently sleep through the night until he started school, Florence was 3. Sleep deprivation is absolutely a form of torture and, if you look around you, you can see other parents sharing the same troubles. As they grow up, life doesn’t get easier as some people suggest, it just gets different. There are different obstacles to overcome and different scenarios and activities to share, fun and love. Tears, tantrums and bickering too. So much bickering.

The pandemic saw us all sharing more time together, schools and nurseries were closed, I worked from home and, during the first lockdown, George had a few weeks off while working out how to best run the business, alongside heading out as an on call firefighter from time to time. We’re so lucky to live in a semi-rural town with access to a garden and outdoor spaces. Like so many other families, we decided our living space didn’t really work for us and found a beautiful house in the same town which needed some love. We made the move on 2nd December 2020.

The new house was in fact a very old house, built in circa 1836 and made of cob (I spent many nights laying awake thinking it’d crumble to the ground as the rain pelted down). The previous owners had lived here for 30 years, made many happy memories but decided it was too much to manage and didn’t appreciate the new builds that now spoilt their once picturesque views, with more planned to surround the house – building works to start next month.

The new builds don’t bother me at all, they’ve provided us with pavements and safe access to walk the children to school which wouldn’t have otherwise been possible and will soon provide lots of digger action to keep William entertained. We’re lucky to have a beautifully established garden with many trees, shrubs and flowers. The previous owners, to the excitement of the children, also left a chicken coop with two hens, only one made it to our moving date, the biggest black hen which William decided to call “Buck-Buck” due to the shriek she made. Over the next few months, we added four more – Blackcurrant, Snowy, Floppy and Dipper. As their first ‘pets’, the children loved spending time with them, feeding them and even helping me clean them out (although their desire to assist with that chose has faded). They especially enjoy collecting eggs and selling them (for £1 a box, mainly to granny and nanny), saving the money to buy a toy they both agreed on (not always an easy task).

I’ve made countless lists, deciding what should be tackled first – the leaking, falling down conservatory, the cracked render on the exposed west facing wall, the retaining wall that’s falling into the road, the garden which would probably become unmanageable within a few months, internal decoration, the roof, is it sound? During my research, it soon became very clear that old houses should not be treated in the same way as new houses. They’re built with traditional materials, lime, earth. I soon found myself in the depths of old house repair books and online forums, learning about the importance of old houses needing to breathe. Anxiety levels grew as I looked around at modern gypsum plaster, concrete render and non-breathable paint/wallpaper.

Lover of a list, I prioritised according to what was required to make the house sound – roof and render. Finding builders that understood the importance of using traditional methods and having availability over the next two years was near impossible so I’m tackling little things as and when I can. Slow progress is still progress, right?

How time flies / #2 / expressing

Well, it’s been 13 months since my last blog.  I’d “blogged in my head” just hadn’t found the time (or patience) to write anything down.

These last 13 months have been emotional. I went back to work – part time.  A change in role and responsibilities that would allow me to spend more time at home with my mini beast. Wonderful for adult interaction, using big words (or at least not sounding out “ba-na-na” for the twentieth time), going to the loo alone. Not great for the guilt of leaving my little one while I revel in those “luxuries” associated with returning to work.

It was tough.  Tougher than I imagined. Tough because of the range of emotions I felt – guilt, was I a bad mum for going back to work? Sadness – the potential of missing out on my baby growing up. Apprehension – would I even be able to remember how to work? Excitement – I’d spend time with adults (followed by guilt for being so selfish).  Exhaustion – my wonderful little man didn’t sleep through the night until he was 15 months old and even then it was hit and miss.

I soon discovered the range of emotions was heightened as I was expecting my second baby.  Having struggled to conceive #1, I was elated that not nearly as much medical intervention was required this time or half as many heart breaks along the way.

Little miracle #2 arrived by elective C-section (avoiding the possibility of another 78 hour labour and emergency c-section as per #1) on 13th March this year.  I tap this out on my tablet with a sleeping baby on my chest after a hectic day as a mum of 2, who’d have thought it

As I love a plan, I’m especially grateful that my weeks now have a (small) sense of routine to them:

Monday: #1 goes to nursery so I can focus on #2 (and think back to how lucky I was with having just 1 to deal with – yet still being a total wreck)

Tuesday: Nanny takes #1 to Jumping Jacks, so a little break for #2 (#1 is very interested in #2, in a sweet, yet violent way)

Wednesday: Dad helps

Thursday: Wing it

Friday: Wing it

Saturday: #1 goes swimming (nice long nap after)

Sunday: Hope there is someone around to help / wing it

Today is Monday, a slightly less conventional Monday than most – I’d usually attempt to sneak a little sleep in while #1 was at nursery but today I had a physio appointment in the morning and #1s nursery day cut short for his first dentist appointment (poor little lamb landed face first on the kitchen lino covered concrete floor – blood everywhere and black gums, watch this space for either discoloured or absent teeth).  Knowing I had approximately an hour to get everything done I managed to sort out the mountain of washing, tidy up (shove toys in brightly coloured ikea furniture) and express.

Ahh, expressing.  I remember this from the days with #1.  A double electric pump, sterilising the three hundred attachments and fitting them together in the hope that they’d work.  Getting myself a freezer full of the good stuff only to find #1 refuse to take a bottle.  Flat. Out. Refuse.  There’s no reasoning with a baby, no “if you don’t drink this, you’ll be hungry”.  Nothing.  I remember quietly sobbing to myself as I thawed the milky ice pops in the sink, watching the milk swirl down the plug hole.  The exhaustion of expressing and feeding. Wasted.  Don’t get me wrong, I know I was lucky to be able to breastfeed etc etc but in that moment, liquid gold was draining away. Along with part of my soul.

Not this time, I tell myself.  This time I will express and give #2 a bottle earlier. Time check, great, 30 minutes to get this done.

  • image

Plumbed in, I managed to spurt out a quick 150ml without interruption.

#2 took to the bottle without batting an eyelid, back to the breast without any fuss too.  I couldn’t be happier! Today is a parenting win for me. Today is a good day.  It’s important to remember the positives as well and the negatives, no matter how small they are (even though the less than glamourous mechanical sucking sound will stay with me for a long, long time).




Where to start…

My first blog. Where to start…

This is a blog for me, a blog for my sanity and somewhere to dump (and hopefully unscramble) some of my frustrated, frazzled “mummy thoughts”.

This time last year, I worked full time as a manager of a (mainly) fabulous team. My days went something like this:

Wake up, have breakfast, shower, get dressed, drive to work, turn laptop on, get coffee, work, have break, work, have lunch, work, go home, have dinner, go to bed. Pretty dull to some, but I like a routine, I like a plan.

Wind forward a year. I’m the proud owner of a 7 month old boy. He’s amazing, frustratingly, adorably amazing and I’d do anything for him.

Yesterday, he broke me. Not physically, and not for the first time. This blog is to help me learn from it then to file the experience away. Lock it up. Move on.

It was Monday. Monday’s are always tough, everyone I’m close to goes off to work. Back to their routines. Oh how I’d love a routine, some sort of normality. Yes, I know babies change you, I’ve read the posts from they keyboard warrior parents, the ones that only eat organic, the ones whose babies only play with educational toys, the single parents who still have their sh*t together, the ones whose babies have a routine. I applaud those parents but I’m not one of them, that’s a blog for another day.

Back to Monday. Little man decides 3am is the time to wake up. It’s not ideal, but I’ve had worse nights. You know, the ones at the beginning when their little tummies are so tiny they need to be fed every 2 hours etc etc. I know there is a reason for this, I wish he could talk, to tell me what’s wrong so I could help fix it. He can’t. I’ve tried everything. Actually no, that was the night before. This night Daddy can do it.

Is he hungry? I’m lucky enough to be able to breastfeed. I’m also trying to wean before returning to work. Feeding in the night isn’t helping so as tired as I am and as easy as it would be just to wop my boob out, I resist.

He’s chewing his bunny and his thumb and his gums are looking a little bumpy. Perhaps it’s those pesky teeth. Teething gel, calpol, cuddles all fail. Poor little man finally gives in at 7am. Daddy goes off to work and I’m feeling guilty for not letting him sleep.

8am, still sleeping, 9am still sleeping. I’m too scared (and tired) I’ll wake him to do anything useful, like shower. I can’t go back to bed, you’d be surprised how much room a 7 month old starfish can take up.

9:45am, he wakes up. He’s not happy. I smile at him and ask him if he slept well. His face says it all, he’s not happy. Not at all.

Maybe he’s hungry. After a cuddle I put him in his high chair. Breakfast today will be eggy fruit toast (thanks for the idea Katie) cut lovingly into soldiers: rejected. Baby rice: rejected. Yogurt (always a favourite): rejected. Baby rice cakes: rejected. Watermelon: rejected. When I say rejected, I mean smooshed into the high chair, table, carpet, his ear, hair…. I need help, who can I ask? Mum is off today, YES! But she has a study day. Bum. Text his dad to see if he’ll be home for lunch. He will, I’ve never been more grateful.

Little monkey wants milk. Tired, I give in. He rubs his sticky paws all over my stomach and falls asleep. I take him upstairs to his room for a nap and clear up the weaning carnage he’s created downstairs. Daddy comes home and we have some lunch, just the two of us. Daddy’s just about to leave when little man wakes up. I cry.

It’s ok, it’s nearly 1:30pm, the local Children’s Centre have an amazing group for 0-1 year olds. There are lovely sensory toys to play with, other babies to look at and interact with, tea, coffee and other mums in the same boat. Brilliant. I pop him in the car and off we go, parking ticket paid for, out of the car we get and into the Children’s Centre. I start signing us in and have a “I think I’m going to cry” moment. Any other day my not so tired brain would have told me that that was ok. Everyone else has had days like this and it’s perfectly acceptable. Not yesterday. Yesterday I crossed my name out, got back in the car and drove home in floods of tears. Kicking myself because I knew that little man loves that group and it would have been just what I needed.

I put little man on the floor with his toys and break my heart, crying like a baby. Big, sobs, dripping nose. I was a mess, I felt guilty that I had taken the opportunity to play with other babies from my baby. Remembering the articles on Facebook that say the first year of a babies life is the most important for stimulation blah, blah.. I’m lying on the lounge floor, my body shaking with my pathetic sobbing. Luckily little man is oblivious. I call his dad (I know I’m so lucky he was able to help), he comes home and tells me it’s ok and that I’m a good mum. I don’t feel like it, I start sobbing again. I’m tired, I’ve never known tiredness like this.

Hubby puts little man in his jumparoo, he’s smiling and bouncing. I can’t be that bad. Sometimes you just need a little bit of reassurance.

Being a mummy is tough. So tough. One of the lovely ladies at the Children’s Centre once told me that people that worked and/or had a set routine often found having a child the most difficult to adapt. She was right.

When you have a 7 month old, you’re considered an old hand. Able to cope. It’s ok to have bad days, I made it through and today is another day.

Get out, visit people, walk, go to the shop. Get in touch with the local Children’s Centre. You need to escape the four walls that feel like they’re closing in on you.

The days are long, but the weeks fly by.

Disclaimer: Excuse the typos, autocorrects and general use of words that don’t belong in the sentence I’ve chosen to put them in. I struggle with stringing a few words together, let alone having them make sense.