The week before last a little bit of paper fell through my letterbox and I picked it up, disinterested.
'Queen of Cakes we need you!' it declared and I thought that for junk mail it was fairly on the money - me, lover of all things cake. I opened it and inside was a letter from Breast Cancer Care suggesting I throw a strawberry tea party, (bake a load of cakes, invite mates round and charge them to stuff their faces with your treats) raise some cash and give it to them. What a fab idea I thought. Within minutes I'd roped in my cousin's girlfriend to do the (hard work) baking (I can manage a few cup cakes but am no pastry genius like my grandmother was), popped a date in the diary and invited all the fab women I know round my neck of the woods to such a soiree and even planned where I'll put me bunting. Now, I've invited about 16 women and told them all to bring a mate - if it rains I am buggered. It'll be like a sweaty club circa 1997; but hopefully as it is in June - the sun will shine. I've never done anything like this before - but with my friend's sad news a few weeks back and a few other things that have happened, I wanted to do something for breast cancer - even if I just raise a few hundred quid. Husband is getting me some fine champagne to sell by the glass and I've persuaded my best mate to mix up some pimms and offer it at a steep price - the key is to raise as much cash as I can...
One lovely lady I've invited then came up with the idea 'why don't we do a 5K run for Breast Cancer as well?' I said 'Yes' thinking - what a lovely idea, we can walk in the sunshine, yabber about nothing and have a laugh. Maybe stop for tea on route.
Except she actually means 'run' it. As in, trainers on - run, run, sweat, gasp, cramp... all that jazz. And I have said yes. I am still not sure why I uttered that word, but I have and I have to do this thing called 'training.' Dear god it is hideous. I feel for all the poor souls that have glimpsed my sweaty red pulsating self dribbling along by the canal where we live - staring at my stopwatch - willing the 3 min run to be up so I can walk again for 1 min. I have no idea how I am going to actually do this - it isn't until the end of June - but by then on my diet and with trainer boy, who knows, I may well be bionic woman (lost 7 pounds. 7 to go). Maybe the cake-athon that I'm hosting three weeks before will put a dampner on my training efforts - who knows. Now where did I put my apron?