Before I had children, I had a flat stomach. Well, almost. I never actually had a FLAT stomach, more like a kind of little bubble let's say. But I could suck it in really well. For ages. Until I had a beer, then I'd forget, and just flap about down there.

And I had shapely thighs. Because sausage shaped is a legitimate shape. 

And a pert bottom. It could hold up a pencil. And probably the notebook to go with it. Somewhere there was a black woman who wanted her booty back.

And in short, I had dancers legs - which is a not so subtle way of saying my calf muscles could probably crack walnuts.

I went to the gym, I worked out, I ran, I cycled and I played softball. So I was always fit. And yet... my body never managed to make it to a revered status in my mind. I never loved it.

Then I hit 40...

When last we spoke I was training for the Royal Parks half marathon - well, the big day has come and gone. I find it hard to talk about though, hence the pregnant pause between my last entry and this one.

The bald fact of the matter is that I was beaten by both Ernie AND Bert. And an oil drum. And also The Stig.

It's a hard truth to face - I was completely unable to overtake two men wearing fleecy head masks representing two of my favourite Sesame Street characters...

Ten years ago, when I was young and fit (ten years younger at any rate) I ran 13 and a bit miles along some jolly Newcastle roads with a few other crazy people in the Great North Run, and had three distinct thoughts when I crossed the finish line.

They were - in quick succession, and this order:

• Never again. Ever.
• This is half way in a marathon? Never doing THAT! EVER!
• I think I'll train more next year.