January 31st

BEFORE I started training, “oww” was never a word so often heard in my vocabulary.

Sure, I have suffered a bit of the man-flu like the next, stubbed the odd toe and, dare I say, even had my heel clipped by the odd trolley or two.

But only since training for this ancient Greek punishment have I realised the true and complex meaning of the three-lettered moan.

I have muscles aching in places I didn’t even know muscles and, more worringly, aches could exist. My knees are bruised, my feet stink and my toes are so blistered they look like a colony of tiny jellyfish have set up their own tentacled close.

For me blisters were always in the safe domain of a Saturday night when, at quarter past late, you switch your ill-thought out heels for a friend’s flats without missing a Beyonce beat.

Unfortunately, there is no such luck with running and it seems no one wants to swap shoes or, more importantly, any amount of time with me since I started.

I have been left suspended between two worlds – the world of gyms, knee supports and knowing what those giant exercise balls are for, and the world of pub, conversation and using them to sit on and roll off.

I’ve become boring and obsessed – friends will be discussing the latest political scandal and I will start talking donations just-giving style; someone will offer me a drink and I will umm and ahh over the nutritional merits of orange juice vs Coke.

Luckily, I have a new army of friends to help in my quest. I am sad enough to admit songs have taken over as my support. Under Pressure is on hand for Haverstock Hill, and All by Myself when I slump in a heap half way up. Billie Jean is for the trip round Belsize when the security lights flash on and off with every foot.

Yes, I have become a loser, but at least I can channel my “owws” into a Michael Jackson number now.