On this Bank Holiday Monday, June 7th, I am taking part in the Women's Mini Marathon in Dublin. Thanks to a rigorous exercise schedule over the past three months I am now able to run for a period of 3 & 1/2 minutes before having to collapse and die, so I am hoping to complete the mini-marathon with a combo of running/walking, in an ambitious time of 'under six hours'. I call what I do, 'wunning', reasons that would become clear to you if you ever happened to pass me when I embark on my evening's exercise, stumbling like an insanely uncoordinated seal, if seals could run and owned sassy-looking running pants.
What I need from you, oh people of inaction and atrophy, is dough. I am 'wunning' my Mini Marathon in aid of the Irish Red Cross and so far have a grand total of €30 sponsorship to my name, which is a bit shit.
My original plan was thus: I have been held hostage in the pub SO MANY TIMES by tipsy do-gooders who have waved sponsorship cards in my face and I have shelled out fivers just to make them go away. What is fair but to claim restitution for this? So, what I intended was that I should bring my sponsorship card to the pub and take advantage of the generosity of the drunk. Unfortunately I kept forgetting my goddamned card, and hardly NO ONE will give you money without any proof.
So here, I am five days before kick off with €30 crumby quid on my card. At this point I will be forced to carry it with me to Dee's wedding on Saturday and badger those wealthy newly-weds and their inebriated guests into donating. Which I think might be a bit of a bad show. Should you like to give me money, I am more than happy to accept it. Please contact me through the normal avenues of communication (except drunkenly serenading me outside my window at four in the morning. I'm so over that) and I will slap your name down on your card, and glory in the envying looks I receive from all other mini-marathon participants.