Lord, what fools these mortals be!

Did your London Marathon rejection magazine crash onto your doormat the other day? Have to sign for a ludicrous garment you’ll never wear? Not me. I got in. Thing is, I’d have been disappointed but relieved to receive the rejection mag. I did my bit last year and that was enough for me. Two entries into the ballot and two “wins”; I can’t claim any special talent or ability it’s just the way it is (although I think in some way I must be cleverer or more deserving than those of you who weren’t successful).

Due to a not-unexpected Royal Mail cock up Liz and I received our ballot news on different days. Neither of us really wanted to run London Marathon 2011. This sounds somewhat ungracious, but I did see 2010 as a one-off, never-to-be-repeated piece of madness. I only entered for 2011 to make Liz feel better about applying. She applied on the grounds that she wasn’t ready yet, but she would be one day. It was no great surprise then last Thursday when my magazine with happy, smiling faces on the front arrived. I was out on Friday when Liz got her notification, but when I got back I found a rather crumpled magazine with saddo, loser faces on the front thrown on the floor next to the most unflattering, ill-fitting “rain jacket” I’ve ever seen in my life. I tried it on and couldn’t decide if I looked more like Fred the master butcher off Coronation Street or that fat bloke off Dinnerladies. Watchdog should investigate and find out if Branson ordered a job lot off some child slave labour gangmaster from Manila.

Liz put on a brave face for the first couple of days, and said she was happy to take her chances with the club draw. Discreet enquiries revealed that this would take place at the Christmas do and I could see that she’d need something to take her mind off it pretty quickly. She must have felt that way too because she set up the ironing board and announced she was going to “make a patchwork quilt”. I have absolutely no idea what this is and hadn’t been aware that my life was somehow incomplete without such a thing, but hey, if it occupies mind and body while she gets over the disappointment, then I’m happy with that.

I blame our eldest. We’d dropped him off at Uni the week before and Liz now has a first-born shaped gap in her life that needs filling with something. Sunday evening comes around and she’s surfing the net looking at charity places. By Monday morning I get a call from Liz saying Age UK has offered her a place. So now we’re both going to turn our lives inside out in order to get fit enough to run for 26.2 miles next April.

I’m really delighted that Liz is running London as well. Trouble is, I was planning on going into denial until the New Year. The training and preparation will become an obsession; everything will be centred on the marathon. All our hopes and plans will be aimed at getting into prime condition and then running to plan. I was kind of hoping to put it on the back-burner as it’s a long time to maintain that level of determination and paranoia.

But it’s already started. Liz announced that her marathon training starts next Sunday with the Woodland Challenge; I pointed out that (a) she entered the race in May, before she’d even thought about London 2011; and (b) she’s only entered because of the legendary goody bag and man playing with his organ in the woods, neither of which are particularly athletic or noble reasons. She mumbled incoherently at this, which is usually my preserve.

I’ve tried to get distracted; the Tory party conference has provided a minor distraction as I go from guffawing (Boris) to apoplectic rage (Gove, Osborne, anyone) depending on which buffoon is on stage. The Commonwealth Games have failed to take my mind off the marathon so far. This may change though as any sports aficionado will tell you that these multi-sport events don’t really get going until the beach volleyball starts. A man who is tired of beach volleyball is tired of life.

So here we are starting six months of marathon based torture. Sometime soon those of you fortunate enough to have received your loser mag and jacket will be tucked up comfortably in bed while I’m hauling my sorry ass round some freezing, god forsaken field. I won’t be feeling so cocky then.