mothers on the verge

I've started to do a trot round the park every other morning in an attempt to avoid my buttocks taking over the world. When I say trot what I really mean is that I sort of stumble and shuffle my way around the park, stopping to wheeze now and then whilst pretending to contort myself into the sort of complicated stretching positions that the more seasoned runners do so effortlessly. I don't think I'm fooling anyone, in fact I seem to get a lot of scornful looks from females more toned of limb and glossy of hair than I (probably French Mamans, I should think, but kinda hard to tell when attired in lycra) but at least I'm trying. That's got to count for something, right? The actual effort of getting myself around the park (all 3.5k of it, gah) is not at all enjoyable, nor is the searing pain experienced in the darkest recesses of my thighs for 48 hours afterwards, but there is one unexpected and totally delightful highlight - ...