What did you do on Sunday?  It was a glorious, sunny day.  Terribly hot for the time of year, you know.  Of course, some idiots were dragging themselves round the city of London for 26.2 miles of sheer hell.  I was one of them.

I can quite honestly say I have never experienced anything quite like it before.  And I don’t mean that in a good way.  If ever there were a time for hyperbole, then that was it.  It was the hottest, hardest, most painful experience of my life.  As I ran, I kept thinking “this is my own, personal hell!”

Other runners began to fall by the wayside from as early as mile 3 which, frankly, is pathetic when you’re undertaking 26.2!  Seeing Dad at 7.5 miles was great, as was spying Kate and Lizzie shortly after.  I was bang on target for a sub-3:55 time all the way through ‘til mile 14 when I was so hot and with my right gleut and left quad conspiring to see which could cause me the most pain I had to stop and walk for a bit.  I could hear my friend Ben Hurley advising me to try to slow rather than stop as once you stop, it’s so very much harder to start again…but start again I did.  On and off, for the next NINE miles!

Team Singer were out at mile 17, by which time I wanted to cry.  A lot.  I stopped to chat to them, managing to blurt out something about it being ‘awful’ and that they needed to tell my mum I wasn’t going to make my time target so I’d be late to Embankment.  I’ve little idea what they said back to me but I will never forget how good it felt to see them!  

Other supporters, on the other hand…had I have had the energy, I could have cheerfully strangled all those cigarette-smoking, beer-swilling, barbeque-enjoying, sun-bathing supporters who called out my name as I dragged myself through the streets of London .  I could have cried at the number of jelly babies offered, which I longed for but couldn’t eat (they’re not vegetarian), or the number of times I wanted to stop, or avoid the idiots criss-crossing my path, or the number of bottles and gel packets I had to swerve to miss along the course.  I was making rather alarming and involuntary grunting noises and with each mile marker I passed, I just kept checking them off and telling myself I was closer and closer to the finish…

I’d said that, if I needed to pee, I’d just go as I ran - I wasn’t going to stop.  By mile 18, I was really rather struggling, having taken a little more water than I needed.  I couldn’t bring myself to just do it down my legs (I’d been thinking about it for quite some time) so stopped off in one of the portaloos.  Blessed relief!

I didn’t see anyone I knew again ‘til Lower Thames Street.  With 3.2 miles to go, I knew I would see Team Singer, my mum, my brother and other friends so I couldn’t stop.  So I ran and I kept running.  It hurt but I was so close to the end I could smell it…or maybe that was just the sweaty bodies around me.  Anyway, seeing Ben H and his gang, then Mum and David was the boost I needed.  Knowing Team Singer would spring up any minute made me run on (solely to look good, you understand).  Then I passed Lizzie, Sophia and Kate again and kept running.  “Team Singer must be a little further down…” I thought as I kept running…and running…until I realised I was into Birdcage Walk and at the ‘800m to go’ mark!  I sprinted the final 250m and crossed the finish line in 4 hours, 20 minutes and 42 seconds.

Then came the tears.  A lot of them.  Like a ruddy torrent and they didn’t stop.  I was exhausted and I wanted my mummy!  The first random person who congratulated me made me cry again. I found flatmate Stuart and cried, got a message to Mum and then crumpled when I saw my Dad.  It was over and I had the medal round my neck to prove it.

When I made it back to Embankment more than an hour and a half after I’d finished, there were STILL people running and I was horrified/astonished and cried all over again, looking like some kind of foil-wrapped, wet-faced nutter.  I arrived onboard the Queen Mary to a massive round of applause and cheers from Team Singer.  The balloons and friendship was overwhelming and I fell into Mum’s arms, crying uncontrollably and uttering the moving words “I’m absolutely f*cked!” (I ought to have been a poet).

From Carolyn’s dancing the YMCA with me that morning (to the bemused looks of other runners, busying themselves with Vaseline and warm-ups), to the pleasure of removing my trainers and socks at the end (and the realisation that a promising career as a foot model is now well and truly over), it was a day to remember and I can now rightfully say I AM A MARATHON RUNNER!!