Afghanistan

My wonderful physio told me last week I can do running training again.

Good job really as my editor (Richard) and head of content (Owen) called me into the Richard's office on Monday morning.

"Chloe can you come in the office please." Richard kind of shouted this from his doorway.

I haven't seen Richard do this before, he's not really a shouty sort of man. So bleary-eyed and tired from a weekend with Nic in London I reluctantly stomp into his office where he and Owen are sat with pieces of paper, looking important.

I am convinced I'm about to be fired. But the worse thing is I have absolutely no idea what for.

But they don't look angry...

"Have you got plently of warm clothes?" laughs Richard.

Okay so I'm not being fired, but they've obviously cooked up some hair-brained plot to chase Johnny Kingdom around Exmoor.

"Yes I've got plenty." Knowing my jacket at wellies are in the car.

"Good because you're going to Afghanistan!"

"What? That's amazing, when?"

At this point I'm thinking January, as this has been on the cards for a while.

"No on Friday." Owen

"Oh right."

It hasn't sunk in yet, it is monday morning, and I am tired/shocked.

"WHAT THIS FRIDAY?"

"Yes.... so we've got to..."

The rest of the conversation was a bit of a blur. Three days to get ready to go to a warzone has been quite a challenge. HIghlights include one return trip to Beaconsfield to get body armour, visit to the doctors, purchase of very warm sleeping bag (thanks Richard), raiding of army store at RMB Chivenor etc, etc.

And tomorrow I leave. And I haven't really had time to think about it.

Good job I can run now.

12 weeks later.

God save the NHS, what a marvellous country we live in, I finally received my first lot of NHS treatment last week, a mere 12 weeks since a visit to my GP.

I’m not going to rant about this, but if it wasn’t for the generosity of John Reeves at the Fitness Factory, who has given me countless complimentary treatments, I would have either been in a world of pain, or severely skint right now.

But anyway after venturing through the catacombs of North Devon District Hospital, I eventually stumble upon my destination, the physiotherapy department. At this point I’m seriously dubious about what help they are possibly going to be able to give me, when I’ve been injured for three months, and the bone will have already knitted.

However, I’m thrilled to say I was very wrong.

My Physio, Lee, is brilliant.And to boot he’s a surfer, so he knows exactly what sort of positions I will be putting my body into, and has given me some very simple but effective changes I can make surfing, that will make all the difference.

The main thing I’ve taken from Lee is that he actually wants me to surf, even though it does hurt me, apparently that is all going to be part of the healing process. Kayaking and running are still out of the question for now, but I’m fine with that, as long as I can surf I’m pretty happy.
He has also given me a load of new exercises, and told me to put a rolled up hand towel on the back of my chair at work, to keep my back in the right position.

Lee’s advice came right in time for a week of classic surf, and although I was flat on my back in agony on Sunday night, following days in the perfect surf, I was also the happiest I’ve been in three months- grinning inanely and singing along to Fleetwood Mac as I lay stretched out on my bedroom floor.

It’s been a bit of a hardcore summer for me, in more ways than one, the back has been a massive problem because it’s kept me out of the water and left me unable to run, which are the two things I do to make myself feel better.

If anything goes wrong, I either escape to the beach and throw myself in the water, or stick on my i-pod, absorb myself in the music and run. I didn’t realise how important these two little things were to my staying sane, until they were taken away, and I have found it really hard.

I feel like I’ve been wandering around semi-sedated from the over-hang of the previous party all summer, and only really woke up this weekend. On Sunday I woke up, for the first time on a Sunday since Sunday July 13 without a hangover. I’m not sure whether I’m ashamed of this, proud of this or indifferent to it.

I think I’m all three.

Of course I am ashamed that I’ve put my body through having to deal with all those toxins on at least a weekly basis for the past three months, and subsequently spent every Sunday in some hideous pit of hangover despair, developing an unhealthy obsession with Kate Bush and Bridget Jones.

But I am also proud in a masochistic “I do what I want and answer to no one” kind of way. The way I see it from this angle is that I’m in my mid-twenties, and I’m going to have as much fun, go dancing and drink as much wine as I can, before I become too leathery for it to be socially acceptable.

But I think in a way I’m probably more indifferent to it all. Mainly because, yes, logically I have spiralled into a summer of booze, fags, festivals, parties and excess, but why not? It’s not like I do it every year, and I’m happy to bury it for a while now I can amuse myself in my preferred ways again.

My friends have a mixed opinion of this, most of them think I take the sports/training/healthy eating thing too far, and tell me it’s verging on obsession. They are probably right, but my skin, my mind and my body certainly prefer life without fags and booze as part of their staple diet.

The point is, that as much as I love nothing better than stumbling around, cock-eyed and noisy with my friends, it is good to give your body a rest once in a while. I’m not being all self righteous, because in truth about an hour ago I bought a Glastonbury ticket for next year, and Dino (a famous booze-hag from my uni days) is in North Devon this week, and I may or may not have a drink with her, but I just think it’s good to be aware.

As Mick Jagger said “It’s fine to let yourself go, as long as you can get yourself back.”

I wonder how many more evenings I can ignore Laura pouring wine under my nose into a nice big glass going “mmmm yummy wine” whilst jauntily posing with a delicious looking rolley...

I predict not long, but my friend Squiz sent me this the other day and it made me smile:

Once upon a time a girl was asked "will you marry me?"

The girl said "NO" And the girl lived happily ever after and went shopping, dancing, camping, drank vodkas, always had a clean house, never had to cook, did whatever the hell she wanted, never argued, didn't get fat, travelled more, had many lovers, didn't save money, and had all the hot water to herself.

She went to the theatre, never watched sports, had high self esteem, never cried or shouted, felt and looked fabulous in jogging bottoms and was pleasant all the time- the end.

I still can't run, but my back feels amazing. For the first time in about three months I feel like I have equal weight distribution on my heels, and I no longer feel like I am stooping over like some crocked ancient in a Dickens novel.

I feel physically great. I've been having regular ultra-sound and treatment from John at the Fitness Factory and the result is I got in the water for the first time in ages on Saturday down in Kernow.

It felt amazing. I love surfing. I only realised how much I'd missed it when I duck-dived under the first wave. I think I've managed to block it out quite well, I think the cider helped.

Anyway after this weekend the cider stops. I'm not going to commit myself to a set amount of time, but I did 4 months at the beginning of this year, so we shall see.

And besides who needs alcohol when you have Kate Bush. I'm going to spend tonight learning the dance from this video for this weekend.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jdmvs7r1u9c

Mamma Mia, here I go again, my my, how can I resist you?

Okay, so the wholesome behaviour lasted all of five minutes. I should have thought more carefully about my outlandish promises of sobriety knowing the bank holiday weekend, and with it the surfers’ ball, was coming up.

So I did a recalculation, and decided I should probably end the summer in style, and continue to relish the fact that I have surfing competition-free weekends at the moment. So, my revised statement is as follows:

“I will continue to party until the weekend of September 27, when, overnight, I will seamlessly transform into an angel personified, with a liver to match.”

The bank holiday weekend was messy. Really messy. You see I usually have a surfing competition that weekend, so I’ve never been able to enjoy it fully.

Saturday morning I hit the gym.

Saturday evening I hit the wine.

A glass or two later and myself, Squizz and Laura had whipped ourselves into a You Tube Abba-filled frenzy, and were stomping around - complete with comedy Abba dance routines and screeching in Laura’s kitchen.

Several more glasses of wine later and we concocted what we thought was a hilarious plan.

We decided it would be hilarious to turn up at my friend Siara’s non-fancy dress birthday party, in fancy dress, feigning anger at her sister, Karly, who we would claim had told us it was fancy dress.

Luckily for us Matt seems to have a wealth of costumes, and an hour later I’m sozzled and dressed as a Thunderbird in the back of a taxi, with Laura shoving her giant cardboard Pac Man outfit in next to me, and there is a Squizz-shaped moustached pirate in the front seat.

Sunday morning comes and I hit the gym again, before me, Matt, Laura and Squizz all go for a family sojourn around Baggy Point.

Sunday night gets a bit competitive as Matt has bought a Nintendo Wii...

And then Monday was the Surfer’s Ball at the Marisco.

We drank Tequila, the rest is a bikini-clad blur.

After three days of solid partying I arrived at work on the Tuesday feeling like the Devil had ripped out my soul.

But there was to be no reprieve, as the weekend which followed was the much anticipated hen weekend in Paris of my dear friend, Karly.
We spent four days in the French capital, and I must say two days in, following a visit to EuroDisney and very civilised meal, I was beginning to think it was going to be a refreshingly tame weekend.

But you see Karly is a stealth booze hag, and I forget this.

Being an A and E nurse she portrays herself as some kind of “adult” and can pretend to be such for months on end.

However, on the second evening, and a few glasses of wine later, my disgusting mess of a friend from Thursday nights at GLT’s gone by was back, shouting and swearing on the metro like a bad Brits abroad documentary.

The third night took an even more interesting shape, as all 22 of us chicks went on a vodka pub crawl. Classy, I know, and probably not the best way to see Paris. But after the first few vodkas we couldn’t see that well anyway.

I did give myself a weekend off partying over September 6, and fully threw myself into training again, and I was feeling super strong. My back is really feeling a lot better thanks to the genius that is my sports therapist, John, from The Fitness Factory.

He has given me realistic goals and set me targets, something as a sports woman I feel I need.

Then last weekend I slightly fell off the wagon again — but not intentionally I was going to have a quiet one.

You see I managed to obtain some VIP tickets to Plymouth Argyle.

And ten minutes into the game, my mate, Georgie, appeared next to me, looking absolutely thrilled, brandishing two ciders.

And I mean thrilled, I used to live with this girl and I can honestly say I’ve never seen her look so happy in all the years I’ve known her, actually maybe once when our friend, Jo, accidentally caught fire, but that was more hysteria...

Anyway, she sat down next to me, beaming from ear to ear, and presented me with my drink, before whispering in my ear with glee: “It’s only a bloody free bar mate...”

You can imagine the rest.

Tonight I have ultrasound on my back with John, and I think, just maybe, I might be good to surf again this weekend.

Wholesome

I have a confession to make.

My last blog entry was made in under the influence of a slightly fuzzy head, post evening at the White Lion in Braunton with Nic and Amy.

Although it has to be said, that since then I have been so well behaved, that if you were to cut me in half, I’d have WHOLESOME written through the middle of me like a stick of rock— perhaps daubed in lentils?

Anyway, Thursday evenings in the White Lion are brilliant, mainly because it’s pub quiz night, and the wrong side of four gin and tonic’s, I, along with the rest of my booze-hag friends, believe we are unimaginably wise.We sit huddled round a table, hissing and conferring in secret conference, before confidently scrawling the answers down, with increasingly dodgy and illegible hand-writing as the evening goes on.

Anyway so Friday came around, and after beasting myself in the gym under the watchful eyes of sports therapist John at the Fitness Factory, I collect Amy to watch Mamma Mia.

To my horror when I pick Amy up, she’s brandishing several cans of lager, and has clearly already put a few away— I’m instantly enraged that she will blatantly have more fun watching Mamma Mia than I will, but pretend to be disgusted at her drunken state, and opt to harp on about the gym to make myself feel superior.

But Mamma Mia, booze or not, was brilliant, and I left Ilfracombe Cinema armed with a stupid grin, and Dancing Queen stuck on repeat in my head.

I awoke smug, early, and full of energy on Saturday, and went all out in the gym, doing a killer weights and cardio session.

For the rest of the day I watched the Olympics with Laura, before I introduced her to the joys of shopping at Lidl- she had never been?

We then settled down for an evening in with a film, but once we’d polished off Mark’s mum’s cake, and a lonely glass of wine each, laura and I ended up falling asleep like old women on the sofas again— I’m becoming concerned this may be a recurring Saturday night theme.

I went to bed at 10.30pm and woke up at 10am the next morning— 11 hours, brilliant.

I’m so good I’m practically organic.

Anyway another hard core session in the gym follows, and John tells me he is pleased with my progress and gives me a whole new set of exercises to do. I feel good because I feel like I’m getting stronger.

I then went for a stomp around a very blustery and muddy Baggy Point with Kate Bush’s A Kick Inside on my ipod. I love that album, Bush’s intensity and raw emotion never fail to make me feel blissfully unhinged, and as I allowed myself to be blown around the point I felt gloriously mental, liberated and free.

Post Bush moment I returned home, and Laura and I decide that seeing as we’d been so good all weekend, we should watch Bridget Jones, and treat ourselves to a glass or two of wine.

A couple later, and after some heated ranting, we decide there are far too many Daniel Cleaver’s in the world, and we are waiting for nothing less than a Mark Darcy.

However we also discussed that Mark Darcy’s will not be found in my bedroom, squiffy eyed, watching Bridget Jones for the fourth time in two weeks.Luckily, we don’t really want a Darcy to come and spoil all the fun just yet anyway.

Monday came, and so did several texts from people telling me how good the surf was— marvellous. And with Lynmouth on my mind I find myself daydreaming in the gym again. Not surfing is hard.

Bridget Jones

It’s been a few weeks since my last entry, mainly because I’ve been far too busy having a ridiculous amount of fun in my thrilling life…

Yes that’s a lie, but I have been busy.

Since my last entry I realised that filling my time away from the waves with alcohol was not healthy, sensible or sustainable.

But before my epiphany I did manage to squeeze in a decent number of evenings of disgraceful behaviour.

Highlights of which included Pige Power in Woolacombe, and also an evening in with my dear friend Amanda last Friday.

I had been planning on hosting a party, but Amanda and I decided that was far too much effort, and a night in with booze, Bridget Jones, and Love Actually would be a much better option.

But the wrong side of a large bottle of Rum between Amanda and myself, I had a moment of clarity.

Amanda and I were both dancing in my living room, fags aloft like squiffy eyed pyjama clad versions of the statue of Liberty, bellowing out the words to “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” when I realised I had actually become Bridget Jones without even realising it.

And before I do actually become a tragic chain smoking spinster with a fat arse, I realised I should put the fags down and step away from the alcohol. I don’t even smoke — but for the past month I had managed to go from athlete to booze hag in one glorious haze-filled swoop.

I personally don’t think there is anything wrong with that, as Mick Jagger said: “It’s fine to let yourself go, as long as you can get yourself back.”

So since waking up to myself, I’ve been training hard, and working hard to get my back on track with sports therapist John, from the Fitness Factory. He laid the law down with what I can and can’t do, and I’m feeling positive and enthused, and I feel like I’m getting stronger everyday.

This week it hit me quite hard that I can’t surf, mainly because Lynmouth fired, and all I could do was sweat it out on the cross trainer and try and ignore it.

Kelly Holmes, who incidentally had a stress fracture in 1996, before going onto win double gold in the Athens Olympics in 2004 said: “In sport and life you have to keep setting yourself targets. You may not realise it at the time, but each of them is a small step to your dream.”

So I’ve decided to set myself a little challenge, to get into K1 sprint flat water kayak paddling, it’s giving me a focus, and making all the time in the gym worth while.
So in my new booze and surf free life I’m filling my weekend with wholesome fun. Tonight I’m off to see Mamma Mia at the cinema with Amy, and then tomorrow Mark, Laura, Matt and I are having an evening in with Kill Bill… Laura and I wanted to watch Beaches so we could sing along with Bette Midler.. but Mark flatly refused to come if that happened, so an angry woman on a rampage of revenge it is…

Moderation

Okay, so après killer cardio session in the gym last Thursday, obviously the most sensible thing to do was meet the rest of the Journal crew at Clayton’s for Chris Rogers leaving party.

When I arrived at 9pm Chris and crew were already the noisy and dribbling side of a few drinks. For a moment I contemplated staying sober and smugly looking on as my colleagues embarrassed themselves. But Laura had already ordered me a vodka and cranberry— well you’ve got to treat yourself right?

A few drinks later, and I couldn’t feel the pain in my back at all, incredible, best drink more.

We then all stumbled into Sherries hoping for some good drunken comedy courtesy of the locals. And we weren’t disappointed, plenty of hollering and general foul behaviour going on, and that was mostly from our table.

We were slightly disappointed at the lack of Karaoke, so the rest of the pub were treated to our word for word rendition of Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody- led by Anna, before seamlessly drifting into Prince’s Purple Rain, and finishing on a grand finale of New York, New York—cleverly adapted by Laura and Anna to Torquay, Torquay in honour of Chris leaving to go to Torquay.

I woke up on Friday feeling the effects of two nights drinking. I should add that up to this point I have been in really hard training and my body just isn’t used to it. But I might never have the excuse to party without guilt again, so I’m seeing it as an entertaining social experiment.

The weekend came and Laura and I decided to escape the bubble, and venture down to Welcombe Mouth on the Devon and Cornwall border to meet up with an old college friend Anna, and some others. We spent the day sunning ourselves on the rocks and swimming, and had a barbecue in the evening.

The day was made easier by the fact that the surf was barely rideable, so I was quite happy to bake myself for the day.

In the evening I was descended upon by my dear friend Karly, who is getting married at Cawsand near Plymouth on September 27. The impending wedding has morphed my friend into what can only be described as bridezilla. The woman is a nightmare. If it isn’t the hen weekend, it’s the wedding and all the organisation that goes with it.

I had envisaged my Saturday night might be spent with my friends chilling with a cider. Karly evidently had other ideas. In fact I was to be dragged on a wedding invitation delivery hell mission. The reason? The suppressed pirate in her thought it would be a marvellous idea to have her wedding invitations rolled up in scroll form, and stuffed into a glass bottle… beautiful, original and romantic I know—but not very easy to shove through a letter box.

So to my horror on a Saturday night I find myself in a garden at my other smug married couple friends’ house, Kim and Shane, with bridezilla, being made to feel horribly single by my dearest friends.
After a good hour of being berated about my love life by the little treasures, I managed to escape to Laura’s. Laura is also single and had sent me the following text message:

“Hurry up, I’m sitting in on a Saturday night eating cheese and watching Mean Girls.”

Laura and I, being the party girls that we are, then wrapped ourselves in shawls and started watching Muriel’s Wedding. However a week of excess had taken its toll, and we both fell asleep on the sofas and woke up at midnight—time for bed, rock and roll.

Sunday morning I did a cardio session in the gym, again mainly cross-trainer stuff, although I did do a sly run as well…

Sunday afternoon, and the surf is still flat (thank god) and me Laura and Matt decide to head down to Middle Beach Woolacombe to catch some rays. As had the rest of North Devon judging by the volume of cars at Marine Drive.

It’s always lovely at Middle Beach, you tend to get more of a local crowd down there. Plus the car park is cheaper than the ones in the main village, and the money goes back into the parish, rather than into some corporate monstrosity…

Monday comes and it’s time to look at my X-Rays with the harbinger of back doom, Stephen Masters. Who, amongst other things, tells me I have a grade one Isthmic Spondylolisthesis—this is apparently good news as it could be a grade five and then I’d be in serious trouble.

And it’s not all doom and gloom, as Stephen said there is no reason I can’t surf in small waves with moderation.

Oscar Wilde ( Novelist, 1854-1900) said: “Moderation is a fatal thing. Nothing succeeds like excess.

A confusing debate then struck up about how much I can actually surf.

Stephen: “There is no reason for you to not be training in moderation, you just need to stop when you feel yourself getting tired, as this will be when you put strain on your back.”

Chloe: “I don’t really get tired, give me timings.”

“If you normally surf for two hours you should cut it down to one, and not go out when it’s massive and you’re going to be paddling lots.”

“And what about training, what training can I do, can I be running, cross training?”

“You shouldn’t really be doing that movement, it will put strain on your back.”

“What not even a little bit, what if I just go easy.”

“It would be better if you didn’t train this week and just do the exercises I’ve given you.”

“I was planning on going to the gym after this.”

“Chloe, what do you want me to say to you.”

“I don’t know.. whatever’s best for me.”

“Well okay if you do train please try and think about your back, and keep in mind the brace position (exercise Stephen has given me to strengthen my abs and glutes, so they take the strain off my back) just think brace, all the time, at your desk, when you walk, all the time, it’s very boring.”

So here I am at my desk, bracing. As I drive I brace. As I ran on the beach last night I was bracing…

I am aware I look very upright and tense.