My second and last (?) London Marathon was completed in the time of 4 hours and 57 minutes, some 9 minutes slower than last year but then I am a whole year older.

I knew I was in trouble from getting off the special Runners Train at Blackheath (packed full of strange wiry men with staring eyes, all loaded with Rambo like cartridge belts full of energy gels ) as I was out of breath by the time I got to the blue start, somewhat cruelly situated at the top of a hill.

The first half was, as last year, pretty straight-forward – nicely downhill through the streets of South-east London, small children holding their hands out for high fives, the crowds phenomenal and wonderfully supportive from the off. The iconic staging posts of Cutty Sark and Tower Bridge came and went, but with the temperature rising and the horrors of the Isle of Dogs and the psychological nightmare of Canary Wharf still to come I started to seriously flag around mile 16. On the other side of the road just before this point I could see some of the elite runners on the home leg. Seeing this doesn’t give you a good feeling. It’s not so much they’re twice as fast as you, more the knowledge that you’ve run so far but there is still so far to go. I accepted at this point I wasn’t going to win the race.

Everything after mile 18 is a bit of a blur. Unlike last year for whatever reason I was no longer enjoying the experience and it felt like I was in a dream, condemned to forever run round Canary Wharf on some sort of hellish eternal loop with the mile markers being placed quite deliberately further and further apart.   I can’t remember much about the few miles after this but by mile 23 I was concentrating on the fact that I might just make it and get to see the family again afterwards. Then, salvation!  A wonderfully funny (and one that would have been very true at this point if zombies were actually to exist and were allowed to take part in events such as this) sign at mile 25 made me smile and brought me back into focus....soon I was past the Houses of Parliament, past Winston Churchill, past Buckingham Palace and with just yards to go I thought about all the hours of training (and drinking) that had gone into this and felt a bit emotional. I even wondered if I might cry at the end of it all.

Of course, I didn’t.  I was brought up in Yorkshire. I just felt generally unwell for a bit. I did have time to reflect,  however,  that despite there being 36000 other runners to keep you company and the best part of a million people supporting you along the way, running a marathon is an amazingly personal experience. It’s all about you battling yourself and from a few days distance away now  I realise that it was my mind, rather than my body, that had put up the resistance in that hellish middle section.

Yet, inspite of all of the above, Sunday was an incredible, life affirming experience and, of course,  I’ve been delighted by just how much money I’ve been able to raise in the past two years for a fantastic charity, Alzheimer Scotland,  so a final massive thank you to everyone who has supported me by donating, many of you more than once. It’s greatly appreciated.