Tuesday, 28 September 2010

What lives are

Whilst Ka was up in Aberdeen, staying sober at her friend, Gillian's, hen doo, I had a pretty quiet, mellow weekend. It all got off to a significantly melancholic start with a funeral. My Unle Tommy's Dad passed away suddenly last week so I joined the rest of the family at Our Lady Of Lourdes Church for the funeral service, followed by tea in East Kilbride's old Village Torrance Hotel.
Having only met Tommy's Dad a few times at family parties,or gatherings, on the odd occasion, I can't pretend to have known the man well, but what I did make of him seems to be on the right track from the way people spoke of him on Saturday. Like all funerals it made me wish I'd had the chance to get to know the man a little better. Tommy Senior seemed a very pleasant, gentle, friendly man. From what I remember at the family gatherings, he would always be found sitting back, comfortable in a couch, taking in the jokes, conversations and banter with a placid ease, taking joy in relaxing in the family environment whilst not neccessarily contributing vocally. Certainly not something the Reids are known for.
So it was with great sorrow that Tommy and his family said goodbye to Tommy senior. Tommy said that although obvioulsy upset by his Dad's passing, he felt some ease in the fact that he was there, in the hospital, at his father's bedside when it happened. A quiet closure, being with the relative at the time, that some would be grateful of.
That's always the worst aspect of a relative passing, and of funerals. The great feeling of a missed opportunity in saying goodbye in the last moments.
Sitting in the church, on these occasions, always reminds you of people now gone. It made me think again of my grandparents, the Reids, who had passed in the last few years, and the Sloans, who I sadly barely registered the passing of due to my youth at the time. There are others too, of course. Aunties, uncles, friends and other relatives that you wish you could have had the chance to talk to once again.
It's only when these people are gone that you miss them, you come up with interesting questions to ask them, jaunts to take with them or good things to say. Interesting or meaningful things to say, not the trivial or unimportant matters that you used to talk about. Well, I know I did anyway. I write a blog for pete's sake. Talking about trivial things comes quite easily to me.
But then, I suppose it's the trivial things that all pile up to make, big, mad, staggering towers of important things, and they are what lives are and what life is all about.

Saturday, 25 September 2010

Listening in

"Is it a train or a galloping horse then?" I asked, standing up from my chair at the other side of the room.
"Oh, I don't know, what do you think?", Ann-Marie, the fill in Midwife, tutted with a smile, as she moved the stethoscope like doppler machine around Ka's tummy bump. The weird, echoing like noises breathed out from the small machine the midwife held as she moved the doppler pad, interupted with the occasional crackle, like a radio station transmitting on a slightly off frequency.
I'm getting quite infuriated now with not knowing the gender of Baby Reid, although Ka is determined to keep it a surprise.
The whole speed of the heart beat is an old wives tale anyway. Surely you're not able to rush out and buy little blue sleep suits on the evidence of a heart beat sounding like a speeding locomotive. The wee Baby might just be having a wee swim around in there or something? Surely that would be enough to speed it up? Being nudged continually by a doppler must be pretty aggravating too. If you were floating about in a big bubble and had someone poking at you with a large rounded pad your heartbeat would surely increase, purely out of irritation?
These nurses never give anything away, no matter how you try and coax some information out of them. The coolest person in the hospital, the 'Ultrasound' woman was just the same. When we were getting the scans done, the ultrasound nurse was stubbornly remaining tight-lipped and non suggestive at my inquistive baiting.
Still, at least we heard the heart beat. Pumping away clear as day. It did actually sound like a train. A locomotive, steam pouring from it's chimney, the pistons and valves rotating over the steel wheels, only muffled, like you were listening from underwater, submergered in a swimming pool alongside the tracks.
Linda, from work, lent us a DIY Fetal Doppler a month or so ago which we tried. We followed the instructions, smothering Ka's belly in baby oil, putting on the earphones and rubbing the doppler over the bump. Most of the sounds we could hear resembled the gloops and squelches you'd usually hear from a swamp or from pushing an empty fruit juice carton into a basin fully of soapy water. We did manage to find a heart beat eventually but after a while realised it was Ka's so, in short, we didn't have much luck and were relying on the midwife visit on Thursday.
Thursday is midwife day in the local doctors surgery and it would seem all expectant mothers from all round the neighbourhood gather to see the baby doctor. Unfortunately it would seem Thursday is also the day that the receptionist with the loudest receptionist voice, ever, works. Admitting us with a:
"YOUR NAME?", and a "THAT'S FINE, JUST TAKE A SEAT". This receptionist smiles and her manner is pleasant enough but the volume of voice is a bit much for a visiting patient with reasonable hearing. After we sat down to wait, alongside the other pregnant couples, a few other 'normal' patients visited, some taking their seats in the waiting room, others picking up prescriptions. One lady patient phoned up about her prescription, us waiting patients surrounding the desk, hearing the whole 50% of the conversation. The receptionist's voice reverberated around the small room.
"MRS. WHITE.... YES. YES... HOW DO YOU SPELL THAT?". Ka and myself frowned at each other disapprovingly as we twiddled our thumbs. "NO, NOT THE WHITE, ESMAE? EZMEE? ESMAY".
For some reason I considered picking up one of the issues of 'Hello' sitting on the piled high on the magazine rack at the end of the long cushion seat that runs around the wall of the claustrophobic waiting room.
"I'M NEVER SURE HOW TO SPELL THAT!" the receptionist chortled, loudly from behind her desk.
"RIGHT, ESMAE, WHITE... RIGHT..." she nodded. "ADDRESS? ...23 SUCHANDSUCH AVENUE, RIGHT...". I sighed.
The receptionist went on nodding as she 'spoke' over the phone.
My head spun round to look at Ka with incredulity, who replied with one of her "shut up" warning looks. She only just managed to disguise the slight smirk on her face, the same smirk which broke out over the face of the pregnant woman on the seat across from us.
Did we need to know that? Do medical surgeries not have some sort of privacy policies with regards to patient's information? I hope I don't get that receptionist the next time I'm on the phone giving any details. Poor Mrs. White... or Whyte, however she spells it.

Tuesday, 21 September 2010

The Tasty Byte @ Night and a pub atmosphere

189 Tasty Byte @ Night was our destination on Saturday night, a very nice little bistro that serves as a cafe by day and turns into a rather cosey little restaurant at night, complete with resident chef and friendly waitress. Ka and myself had decided to treat ourselves to a meal and travelled into Glasgow, via the trusty Number 20, starving. Upon entering we were greeted by the pleasant lady/owner/waitress who informed us quickly, without delay and with a probably regularly rehearsed speech that they did not hold a license to sell booze.
I don't think I'd ever been to a BYOB restaurant before. In fact, when the waitress greeted us talking of a BYOB I paused, momentarily puzzled, believing it to be some sort of street language, Urban Dance acronym or some kind of new fangled text word.
As Ka prepared to sit down at our given table anyway, I froze, alarm bells ringing in my head. No wine? No beer? Not even a shandy? Is there still time to walk out without causing a fuss? Can we turn on our heels and escape before she sees our faces in any great detail? Damn. Yep, she's giving us plenty of eye contact. She's seen our faces and knows what we look like. There is no escape now. After a brief moment of panic, I wondered why I was suddenly thinking like an alcoholic and shouldered my jacket off. Of course I can go without booze. We don't feel the need to drink with meals at home so why should we sitting in this pleasant little restaurant?
The lady went on to say;
"For those diners who do turn up without and do wish a drink with their meal, we do have an arrangement with the Pot Still across the road. Most people nip over there and buy a bottle over the bar. You could always do that if you wish?"
Feeling a slight but sudden breeze as she finished, she looked down to see an empty shoogling, wooden chair, where I had been sitting.
Although Saturday was the first I'd heard of it, The Pot Still is one of Glasgow's most famous whiskey pubs. On entering the bar you immediately see the well stacked bar to your left, covered and surrounded by bottles of all shapes and sizes, each filled with their own particular shade of amber, ginger or wood coloured spirit. One of those old bars that looks just as how you'd imagine a medieval Potion Maker's Laboratory to be like. The wooden panelled furniture, together with the old decor, the racks of bottles and the instantly recognisable regulars shouting and guffawing at each other, milling around the bar immediately reminded me of the Auldhouse bar, where I used to work as a student, not to mention more than a few other whiskey bars I'd been in over the years. That great, undefinable quality some pubs have. The pub atmosphere. Full of character and charm.
As one of the locals belched in my face, I ordered a couple of Budvar beers and then ran back over the street to the Tasty Byte to be greeted by my lovely wife, patiently sitting at the table, where I'd abandoned her.
Salmon was the order of the day, both Ka and myself going for different options after starters of prawn cocktail and soup. The chef even cooked up a special tagliatelle especially for Ka since she had to refuse half the menu due to her pregnant, dietary needs. Afterwards, for some real over indulgence, we went for dessert. Cheese cake and Ka went for the chocolate fudge cake. Possibly the best cheese cake I'd tasted in years and certainly the best bill I've had for such a great meal in years.
We promised the waitress good reviews on 5pm.co.uk and left crossing the road once more to a considerably busier Pot Still where we spent the rest of the night relaxing upstairs, sitting back, enjoying it's surprisingly great music.
After taking our seats I realised one of the guys, sitting at another table nearby, closely resembled a worker from the Auldhouse. Unfortunately I wasn't 100% sure. Tempting as it was to go up to the guy, interupt his conversation with his mate, and ask if he was indeed, 'Stuart who used to work behind the bar in the Auldhouse, but had now put on the beef', I considered better of it. He obviously had not recognised me sitting at the next table and, knowing me, it could only end in disaster, or at least, embarrassment as the guy would look up blankly from his whiskey, ask who I was and why such a weirdo would interupt his conversation with his mate.
A pair of ridiculously drunk middle aged couples also stoted in at one point and plonked themselves at the next table. They sat arguing, joking and then arguing again whilst yelling at a pair of amorous young snoggers in the corner. Unfortunately this was not Ka and myself but a couple of a slightly, dare I say it, younger age. After they had successfully scared that younger couple away another soon came up and took their place, the girl with a considerably shorter skirt than the last. The guy nearest me passed me his 3D cinema glasses with a nudge.
"Use the glasses man, use the glasses!" he was yelling at me as he winked towards the girls' legs. Nodding and laughing politely, I wondered what would possess these guys' wives to fall out with them. Around ten minutes later, this guy nudged me again, winking towards the girls' legs.
"Use the glasses man, use the glasses" he mock whispered, grinning. He'd obviously forgotten he'd already performed that joke. Either that or he thought it was funnier than I did and worth a second shot.
Did he know how 3D worked? Where did he get the glasses anyway? I doubted that these two drunken couples had just stumbled out of 'Avatar the Special Edition'?
It was then that I realised there weren't even any lens in these black spectacle frames. I hope they hadn't been wearing them through their Avatar viewing. Though it would account for the fact the four of them were sitting there rocking from side to side, their eyes staring dazedly into the pub's atmosphere.

Friday, 17 September 2010

Security guards on the buses

My brother, Kenny contacted me yesterday via the wonderful correspondence relay that is facebook. Finding himself quite bored at work he decided to become The Reidnet Journal's first 'Guest Contributor'. He even chased me up when I hadn't managed to publish it straight away. Here goes:

Thursday 8th September 2010 and I'm sitting at home when the phone rings. Its the work agency getting in touch with, no doubt, another money spinning job offer for me. Upon answering and speaking to the recruitment consultant I'm told of a week long contract available to me working as a security guard for an office block. Taking a minute to imagine myself as a sixty year old man, I then realised that the guy on the other end of the phone was serious. I had to try extremly hard to stifle any laughter as I excepted the opportunity thinking to myself, "the boys are going to love this!" Upon calling my old(er) brother and telling him of this wondeful career change I was expecting him to find it as hilarious as I did. He didn't. Not even a hint of a laugh. I had to wait til Thursday for that reaction as I told the boys at 5's.
Anyway, Friday comes, my day of intensive training into how to sit at a desk all day looking at the TV. To be honest I could of skipped Fridays traing as I'm quite good at this task having had plenty of training in the past! I was getting paid though so I wasn't complaining. Having walked in on the Friday morning I was still laughing at the fact I was a security guard. The laughter soon stopped when I recognised a girl I went to school with working on the ground floor with an accounting firm and another guy who I couldn't place working on the third floor with an engineering firm. Anyway, my old school friend was enjoying a office day out so I only had to hide a few times until she left for the day which I accomplished successfully. That would of been an awkward conversation;
"hi, working for an accountants, you must be doing well,"
"yeah, i am and look at you, a security guard, you must be............."
The front door of the building wasn't working properly. It wasn't shutting behind the person when opened. A workman was called out and had a go at fixing it before disappearing. He had made it worse. It was now slamming shut behind anyone coming in. Slamming shut quite violently. To the extent of parts starting to fall off the door. Waiting for another engineer to sort it, we decided at 5 o'clock on a Friday afternoon, and only 30 mins til we finish, that he wasn't coming. We took it into our own hands, we put a sign on the door!
"Please ensure door is shut behind you". Problem solved!
The bus from the accountants day out pulled up and the door was slammed shut once too many times, screws flying everywhere, the door came off its hinges and fell forwards onto the stone walkway infront of the building. Lifing the door it quickly became obvious that it weighed a ton, and if anyone had been under it when it fell they would now look like Judge Doom at the end of Who Framed Roger Rabbit? After avoiding my old school mates gaze as she entered the building as soon as it hit half 5, I was offski, door or no door, it wasn't my problem til Monday.
Saturday night, and big Andrews 27th birthday night out. The hairy man himself, Graeme, Kev, Disco Dave, Weaver, Jamie and me all met in Buddha. After a few pints some dinner was suggetsed to which Jamie replied, "its Saturday, no one eats dinner on a Saturday!"
We left Buddha and went over to Nicos to get a round of J├Ągerbombs but decided against it, after walking in and smelling the aura of piss in the air, probably coming from the jakies who had been in all day enjoying the cheap drinks. So into O'couture we went. It was dead but they serve cold bottles of beer. A pub crawl ensued and we ended up in Vodka Wodka in Ashton Lane via a couple of pubs, most of which I can't remember their names and one which I do, The Ivy. Can't really remember much after Vodka Wodka, the first thing I remembered was waking up on a bus in the middle of, God knows where, at half 8 in the morning. Having spoke to my mates this seems to be what happened; only Andy and Kev were in a fit enough state to go dancing, don't know what happened to Weaver and Jamie but myself, Graeme and Dave walked back to Graemes via a chippy. I made it as far as the chippy before disappearing, presumably getting on a 66 and then falling asleep for 6 or 7 hours before being wakened by the driver in Mountblow. Didn't get up the road til half 9, Sunday morning. Then Michael text me to see if I fancied the gym. Not likely.
Oh, and I placed the face of the guy from the engineering firm. He was on my CIvil Engineering course at Glasgow Uni. If he keeps working hard he might, one day, make it as big as me.

Thursday, 16 September 2010

"It's in Bellahouston Park, you pagan!"

Woke up this morning after a rough dream involving grand parents passing away in the wrong order, family members being eaten by swamp monsters and houses being demolished, all seeming, in that mad, crazy, dream-like way, so tangible and real. The swamp monster was particularly horrible as part of it's murderous routine was spewing acid over it's prey before taking off large chunks from the head by pummeling it's catch with it's tremendous tentacles. A rather disturbing vision to have in your head as you wake from your slumber.
My liking for science fiction can sometimes have odd effects on my dreams...
At the moment I'm reading Adam Roberts' 'Salt'. A science fiction novel telling the story of a large human colony setting up camp on a new world which, due to it's white, arid landscape, and near uninhabitable and hostile atmosphere is christened, you guessed it, 'Salt'.
The various factions of the colony settle at different points throughout the land, each with their own philosophies, beliefs and religions. Of course, once each clan settles it all breaks into a bloody war. The two larger, main colonies, the Senaarians and the Als, are the main protagonists in the book's events which are told from the viewpoint of each of these clans' leaders . The Senaarians live with their militaristic, ordered dictatorship and the Als, with their unordered, unruly, free-living ways. Both eventually break from their strained toleration of each other and give in to battle and death.
Through it Roberts paints a pretty pessimistic vision. The basic bones of the tale being, of course, human nature. Roberts is basically saying that no matter how long the human race survives, in the end we'll always end up fighting internally with the inevitability of fear and hostility, the results of a lack of understanding and tolerance in differing cultures and beliefs.
Talking of beliefs, the Pope's in town today with his Popemobile.
After waking from my swamp monster filled dream this morning and getting ready for work, I text my Mum and told her to enjoy herself at Glasgow Green today.
Mum text back, rather abruptly, "It's in Bellahouston Park, you pagan!".
Police are swarming the city centre, motorways have been closed off and a large black stage has been erected in Bellahouston Park for Mass, taking place this afternoon led by the Pontiff himself.
Ka and myself were in the Gallowgate area of Glasgow on Saturday morning with Dougie and Grace, heading for the Pram Centre to investigate some baby mobiles for our own coming visitor. On our way we passed the Barrowlands and the Bairds bar where loud, angry anthems were belting out, echoing through the street. Stalls had been set up, framed with Celtic scarves, selling T-shirts, adorned with Benedict's mug. Slogans not unlike 'Glasgow Celtic welcomes the Pope' and such like plastered over the 'quality' prints. Unfortunately I was walking down the street with my dark blue sweater on and was certain I was getting more than a few hostile looks from the grumpy old Glaswegian men milling around the stalls. One passed me by who, I swear, was almost ready to spit on me, the look on his face. Maybe he was just upset by the fact I wasn't buying a T-shirt.
Anyway, I'm sure there'll be a few T-shirts on today. It's an unbelievably sunny afternoon after the terrential rain of earlier in the week... almost as if there has been some kind of divine intervention throughout the skies of Scotland.
Great weather for his Holiness' £20 a ticket gig.
Surely the Pope could have put on a free mass for all his followers when they number so many and when his visits number so few? This is the richest global organisation in the world after all. With Susan Boyle and Michelle McManus singing on stage surely they should be paying us to attend?

Wednesday, 8 September 2010

All part of the service

Last night the phone rang, echoing through the hall.
"Production, Michael speaking" I automatically rhymed off after picking up the receiver. Ka's Mum hesitated, assuming she'd dialled the wrong number, before I realised what I had said, frowned and blustered an apology. Maybe I'm taking this role as a member of S&UN's Customer Service Promise team a little too seriously. The Customer Service Promise is a new initiative to improve on our Customer Care, nation wide, if it needs improving that is, and it's up to our small, specially selected, elite squad to work out how. How do we deal with angry customers, disgruntled advertisers and such like and how do we improve upon it all? How does the company deal with the problems we all face on a day to day basis and how can we make our customers' experience a guaranteed happy one? Unfortunately I missed the meeting today, couldn't be bothered... Only joking, of course, I was covering for my Line Manager, Felix (the cat). Not sure why or who calls him that and I'm not sure anyone does these days - I heard it somewhere in the past five years. I think it may have been one of Mickey Mouse's predecessor... not sure though.
Anyway, today I was given a bunch of managerial training books and a DVD to watch. The main folder is entitled WHAM! with the subtitle "Getting them to do what you want them to do". Sounds like a great title for a wife handling course. Then again, maybe not with the main heading of 'Wham!'. That kind of performance management would probably land you in court.
Good title for an eighties boy band though. No, wait, yes, you'd probably would end up in court that way too.
This is all a result of my annual appraisal, however many months ago, at which I requested to move on up, learn more and advance my skills within the company. As I was learning some new web applications at the time, and still am, I requested a course in Adobe Flash for the possibility of helping out with the online advertising. David, the boss, contacted the relevant hierarchy. The relevant authority came back with the rather unsurprising, 'Computer says no' and offered me a course in Xcel instead. Hmmm, from exciting web applications to spreadsheet and database building... not quite the same. Politely agreeing to look at advancing my database building skills I placed the books in the bottom of a drawer, where they've been since I accepted them.
WHAM!, with its dull, green plastic folder does come with a 'DVD drama'. Looking forward to watching that one. Teaching you all about overcoming the obstacles faced in the office. Losing a stapler, the constant crashing of photoshop, crazy dancing, losing the stationery cupboard key etc. All very dramatic and all ways to improve our customers' satisfaction. Bet you nobody gets killed though. Not even a parrot. Or a pigeon in our case.
A pigeon flew into the office a few months back and everyone, for some reason, lost all sense and reason. Everyone started running, screaming and flailing about the office. I looked up from my desk to see if a Terminator had just stoted in with a Uzi nine millimeter. As most people flailed or cowered in one side of the room I realised, once again, it was down to the mug to sort things out.
After opening the window at my side with a heavy sigh, I simply picked up my coat, raised it up, opened it wide and started leading the pigeon towards the window's opening like some kind of avian matador. After some head bobbing action (the bird, not me) the pigeon eventually got the hint and I gently steered it towards the window. It must have had a small moment of clarity as it seen the light and decided to fly straight towards it at full pelt, where, typically, it smashed into the glass head first. The bird's head bent into some kind of obscene angle giving a heavy crack as it hit and the pigeon dropped like a stone, through the window's opening and into the fresh air. After that crack I suspected it wouldn't be doing much head bobbing for much longer.

Monday, 6 September 2010

Could this be any weirder?

Ka text me today to announce that she felt movement. Baby Reid moved. Halfway through a cereal bar Ka flinched as she felt a strange flutter throughout the lower belly area. She assured me it was in no way due to any cereal bar digestion. Baby Reid is finally making his, or her, presence felt. About time too, at 22 weeks we were getting a little impatient.
It must be the weirdest thing, feeling something moving about inside you that is not the gathering of wind. Never mind 'something' what about someONE. Another human shuffling around inside, trying to make himself, or herself, comfortable.
Of course, this news fired up some more baby talk in the work. Prams, cot buying etc. Then Dave, who sits in the office alongside me, asked whether Ka was going to consider breast feeding. At first a little taken aback by the fact a fellow worker was mentioning my wife's breasts, I then remembered about how Dave must spend quite a lot of time talking of breasts. His wife has not only already produced three children but is also a nurse in the maternity ward of Wishaw General who specialises in the old feeding with the boob. Dave must be an inadvertent breast feeding expert. As is Andrea, who sits opposite him, who immediately started talking of how much of a pain in the neck it all is... not to mention the nipple.
That must be weird too, having another human being feeding from your nipple. A nipple that squirts milk? Weird. As if the thought of a human growing inside your belly wasn't weird enough. Then there's the actual birth... I was reading something the other day that suggested it is the modern father's job to cut the umbilical cord. That'll be right, I thought. I'll be lucky if I'm still conscious behind the video camera.
Only joking, of course. I'm certainly not taking the video camera into the birth. That's just weird too. Does anyone still do that? Did anyone ever do that? Or was it just a 'Friends' myth? Perhaps merely a plot device cooked up to aid the comedy of Chandler and Monica's baby preperation in it's fiftieth episode of Season 72..?
A family video of your mother giving birth to you would surely never be classed as a family favourite. Saying that, I bet some crazy person out there has uploaded the birth of their beloved offspring on to youtube. I'm not even going to investigate that one.

Friday, 3 September 2010

Mental missions and marathon running

At around 11.15pm last night Ka and myself found ourselves singing Happy Birthday at my Mac. Not becuase it is my beloved Mac's birthday though. We were making a recording for Jillian, Colin McG's other half, whose birthday was yesterday. At the moment she's limbering up, readying herself for the Glasgow Half Marathon on Sunday and, as if one was not enough, the Great North Run next weekend. A great way to run off the birthday cake.
After rediscovering the small, funky application 'Garageband' on my Mac yesterday evening, Ka and myself thought we'd put together a rather original birthday greeting for her. We'd then send it over by email which she could then listen to, in her own time, with great delight, in awe at our wonderful singing voices and originality. That was the idea anyway.
We sat at the computer desk singing, rather reminiscent of the family gathering round the piano at parties in old movies, smiling up at the ceiling and at each other as they sang their merry hearts out. As it turned out Ka had to stop the recording at least three times, claiming I was out of tune.
Out of tune? Me? Ridiculous. More like she was threatened by my superior singing voice In the final recording that was eventually sent, my voice had went from the towering falsetto that John Barrowman would have been proud of in the first recording, to a dull mumbling that Dustin Hoffman would have been produced as he was being questioned by Warren Beatty.
The singing Postman upstairs was probably lying in bed listening to us through the floorboards, swearing under his breath, wondering what the hell we were up to.
With the exception of a small lunch break yesterday and a visitor from Your Move, I was on the computer all day yesterday messing around with some animation and website designs. Actionscript, the scripting language for interactive websites, animation and related software, is proving to be a bit of a nemesis for me and one that's fairly difficult to master. It's turning into a bit of an ongoing mission in order to upgrade my webskills. I've managed a few minor projects so far but it's proving to be more of a frustration than anything. Perhaps I'm better off in Garageband, rehearsing the old singing voice.
Moments ago I just received a text from Jillian thanking us for the message and accusing us of being mental. Hmmm, it's not us competing in two half marathons in the space of two weeks.
Good luck Jillian!