I'm not bitter....

Oh no, wait, I AM bitter. Bitter and twisted. One day back at work, several narky emails from the same American, same old bitterness. But if all else fails, I feel sure I can get a job as a chambermaid.

But I do have my home back - Hotel Penter is temporarily closed. I say "back", I have it back, post-8 - yes 8 - guests in the last month - until Saturday, when another 2 arrive; I have it "back" if you don't count the wardrobe full of someone's clothes, a suitcase full of someone else's (French and Latin) books, a photo frame and several leftover kitkats of indeterminate flavour (it claims to be cheesecake. I'm not convinced.) I have it "back" if you don't count the bike that's in our vault, the coat and scarf mysteriously left on the hook by the front door, the pile of rubbish that needs clearing out of the spare room, and the Christmas card we (semi)-lovingly gave to one of our guests only to find it abandoned next to the sink. Like I said, I'm not bitter. After all, I'm now free to piss in the shower and cook naked, should I wish to (I don't.) On the upside, F has bought a Dyson. Apparently this is very exciting.

So what's my purpose in life now? With nobody around to ply with copious amounts of tea or wash up for, I'm somewhat surplus to requirements. Ooh, I know - I'll run 10 kilometres. That'll be good.

Yes, I've signed up for the Bupa 10K. This is the result of some ill-placed enthusiasm - possibly induced by copious amounts of legal cold-curing drugs - that I can't quite seem to resurrect now. I'm running for Cancer Research UK for Will, and for Mind (and I'm rather proud to have worked an Eeyore quote onto my page already, namely "We can't all and some of us don't". Oh yes - give us yer money!!)

Now 10K is a long way. It's twice 5K to be precise, and 5K is the usual distance at which I can feel as though I've achieved something. To put it into perspective, I ran 7K in the gym 3 weeks ago, and my legs wouldn't work when walking downstairs for 4 days afterwards. 10K is a long way, unless you're a marathon runner. I'm not a marathon runner. Everyone did 3 sports at my school, unless you were a singer, in which case you were exempt from 1. I was a singer. While everyone else was scraping mud from their sweating bodies I was going "Ooh, top C. Nice one."

It's also a terrible time of year to be attempting to do anything remotely sporty, because it's New Year, and my gym is full of keen people. They all have personal trainers who shout orders at them as they sweat copiously over all the machines I want to use. They all wear shiny new vest tops bought in the sales and they talk superciliously about their abs, which annoys me, because I've been going for years and am not certain I'd recognise an ab if it came up and bit me on the...well, the ab. It doesn't matter much, in that next week it will get quieter, and come February it will be the Marie Celeste again, but in the meantime, grrrr....

I went to Pilates tonight, but my Pilates teacher didn't; I ran 3K instead; I ached and gasped for breath; I brooded about the fact it was only 3K; I brooded about the fact that I no longer have a surrogate flatmate to drag to the gym with me to give me the impetus to actually do something while I'm there; I brooded about the fact that my students hate me because (I know, how could I?!?) I'm not the Home Office and their visas are still languishing in Croydon; I brooded about the rubbish that still needs to be taken out and then bed that still needs remaking; then I drank tea and skulked around the flat listening to Morrissey. Happy New Year, sweet people.