I have had so many discussions with people over the last nine months where I’m told I’m so lucky that I can run because they can’t run for more than five minutes without stopping. It doesn’t matter how often I try and explain it to them, it doesn’t seem to sink in. It doesn’t get any easier – your body just allows you to run a little further, whilst suffering the same pain. I suffer as much as them, but my brain is better trained to block it out.

I am no more able to run for 2 hours without stopping than anyone else. But, I’ve spent a year training and building myself up to it. I think that, on the whole, it is not our body saying “no”, it is just our brain. Frequently, half way round a run I will decide that I am tired and I need to walk. The pain hasn’t increased a huge amount or arrived suddenly, but my brain has tired of ignoring it. I will then walk, for all of about five steps before sternly having a word with myself because the pain isn’t changed by walking and the pain is only prolonged by walking, so you just have to get on with it.

It seems to be a common belief that some people can run and some can’t. I hate to burst the bubble, but I have to work bloody hard at it! And it’s not the muscles that need training, more than anything, it is the brain. If you don’t feel like doing a run, or your brain isn’t truly focused, you will find it impossibly hard. Whereas on a day when your brain is switched to the correct function, you can ignore all the aches, pains and hills and simply carry on.

I think that despite the next 6 months training, nothing will prepare my brain for the 26.2 miles that I’ll be running in April. Someone told me that I had to stop thinking of it as 26 miles, but 10 water stops. No matter what we do, it’s impossible to switch our brain off; on Saturday, I decided that my ‘long slow run’ would be from home to course build at Berkshire College of Agriculture. I looked on Google maps and decided it was 10 miles. Sadly it was 11 and ½ miles. Now, I can hear what you are saying – if you’ve run 10, I’m sure you can manage another mile or so? But my brain was so focused that I was going to get to stop soon that when I got to 10 and was in the middle of nowhere still, I could have cried. I just couldn’t find the motivation to keep on running. I did carry on, but it felt like another 5 miles to the finish.

Whatever the distance you are running, I can guarantee that your body will begin to tire in the last 10% of the race. Well, put simply, if you don’t have that pain that feels like you are dying, you just aren’t trying hard enough! But if I do a 10km race now, I just know that at 9km, I would feel like I didn’t have another step left in my body, even though I know I’m fit enough to do the race twice. It is entirely psychological and unless I find a way of unplugging my noddle, I’ve just got to learn to live with it!

Normally I fall into a bit of a retirement in the winter as although I would love to carry on, running alone in the dark seems a bit silly. I went out once and was so terrified that I was going to be mugged or raped that I forgot to look out for potholes and nettles; I came back looking like I’d taken a scalpel to my legs. Thankfully that was the only damage, but I thought that realistically it would be safer to run in a pack. It might also help to keep that noddle of mine motivated through the dark, wet, cold nights. So a few weeks ago, I embarked on a couple of running adventures…

My first experience of running en masse was by invitation of a friend; she said that she does hash every Tuesday and it’s the most fun way of running. I wasn’t sure that smoking dubious roll ups prior to running was that wise, but I went online to do a little bit of exploring about her kind of hash. The next Tuesday, I found myself sat in a pub car park awaiting the arrival of the High Wycombe Hash House Harriers. Clad in more hi-viz lycra than you could shake a stick at, soon everyone arrived. I was taken into the middle of the group, lit only by our headtorches and pronounced a Hash Virgin and welcomed to the group.

Then we started running; there is no easy way to describe it, but essentially one of the hashers (called the hare), has been out earlier in the week and laid a flour trail for the hash to follow. So you run through woods, fields and along lanes shouting “on, on” every time you see a dot of flour on the floor. Every so often, you’ll get to a checkpoint, where you have to find the right way to go, which often means half a mile or so in the wrong direction first. There are some other odd rules here and there to make sure the faster runners run further than everyone else. Once you’ve been lost in the dark for a good hour or so, you eventually stumble back across the pub where drinks and chips are shared by all.

It was, quite possibly the most entertaining run I’ve had – everyone was so friendly and I think everyone made a point of talking to me and making sure I was having fun. Everyone was a mad as me – quite proved by the fact that next week, we’ll be dressing up in Halloween clothing for the hash! Nobody took themselves too seriously – but they made sure everyone was enjoying themselves, which is just what I was looking for! I have to say, despite certain friends likening it to dogging (which it isn’t!), it’s a great way to get some exercise in.

Quite buoyed up by the friendliness and the fun of the Hash, I bit the bullet and emailed a local running club to ask if I could join them. A few days later, I got a perfectly polite email back inviting me to run with them on Thursday. Again, I found myself decked out in hi viz lycra lurking in the carpark, waiting for more people to arrive. Bravely, I walked into the club house, at which point everyone stopped, stared at me and then carried on with their conversations. Try as I might, I couldn’t hide any further in the corner than I already was, but I stood there studying my feet, waiting for someone to talk to me. Eventually, the “ladies captain” came over, asked me if I was new and told me I had to join one of two groups, but failed to tell me how to decide which group to go with. They made some announcements including the classically friendly “there is a new girl in the corner” followed by pointing and staring and then we were off.

Out of sheer fluke, I found myself with the fast group, who ran at a faster pace than I normally train at, but not so fast that I couldn’t keep up. I started to notice that we were losing people on every turn, but no one seemed especially bothered, which further motivated me to keep up! I was damned sure that I wasn’t going to get left behind in the middle of nowhere, when I didn’t know anybody! We ran a good strong 8 miles and by the end, one or two people had said a couple of words to me. I finished, cooled down and went home. It wasn’t that fun, but I think it’s what I need in the run up to the marathon. If I don’t have people pushing me to go faster and further, I’ll be lost. It’s just a real shame that I couldn’t have a laugh along the way.

So that’s how my marathon training has started – hopefully it’ll begin to pick up pace as I get deeper into the winter. In my next blog, you might even get to see a picture of the Halloween Hash!

Those of you who have been following me (on facebook, twitter or just with the night vision goggles) may have noticed that I’ve lost a little bit of weight this year. I’d like to say that I found some magic cure for being fat, but essentially I just ate less and ran more. Dull, but true. After a shaky start to the year with a bit of abdominal surgery to test my patience, I was soon desperate to rebuild my stomach muscles and get rid of the post op flop. I had to begin running very quickly because I was entered in a team Rat Race challenge at the end of March – although I found “I still have internal stitches” a great excuse to bypass certain challenges! But pretty soon I was hooked – I entered the Bupa 10,000 in London for the Alzheimer’s Society and loved the challenge.

Being a bit of a geek, I found it really exciting training and pushing myself to try and get in under the time I had set myself. I wanted to complete the 10km in 55 minutes and finished in 55.30, which was as near as damn it, but not quite close enough. So I found another 10km around a similar course just six weeks later, where I came home in 51 minutes and was over the moon! Soon 6 miles wasn’t really enough and I was desperate to see just how far I could run and I began training for my first half marathon.

In the meantime, I had spent marathon day in London and was just so overcome by how ecstatic all the finishers looked, so in a fit of insanity I entered the ballot. I knew the deal – only 1 in 8 people got in and in truth, I would be absolutely terrified if I got in and never ready in a million years. However, I soon learnt that if you don’t get in, you do get a London Marathon branded top. As far as I was concerned, that was fantastic! I could spend most of 2011 telling everyone I’d dearly love to do the marathon, if only I could get an entry and then I’d get a top that would make everyone assume that I had done the Marathon! What a great idea!

I suspect that you can see where this is going… Sure enough, just last week, I got in from work, fresh from telling everyone that I wanted to find some kind of challenge to do in 2012 to find an envelope with my name on it. Not that unusual, but when I saw the word “Accepted” printed on it, I nearly fell over. I dropped everything I was holding to rip that letter open to make sure I was reading it right. I was straight on the phone to a work-mate who laughed and laughed and laughed! I found that every time I went to talk about it, my voice rose about two octaves and suddenly seemed to spew out at high speed.

Don’t get me wrong, I was incredibly excited, but that was far outweighed by the feelings of awe and terror that were coarsing through my veins. Especially when you consider that I’d given myself a few weeks off running to get my hip and lower back a bit stronger. I knew from the minute I got the letter that there was no way in the world I wasn’t going to give the Virgin London Marathon 2012 (oh yes, Olympic year!) my very best shot, but oh my God, what a mission lays ahead!

The next day I was back to the chiropractors to get myself straightened out. He seemed particularly delighted I had gotten in – perhaps he’s rubbing his hands together with glee whilst envisaging a nice holiday for him and his family after 6 months of my custom?! What had been a wind down into the winter months has suddenly changed out of all proportion and sadly, for the next 195 (or so) days, I’m going to become a boring git who runs and eats obsessively. Still, it’ll all be worth it on April 22.

As I got a ballot place, there is no need to run for a ‘gold bond’ charity, which excitingly gives me carte blanche to chose my own to raise money for. I didn’t even have to think about it – there seemed little point raising money for a charity that will have 50 other runners when I could chose one much closer to home that may only have one or two runners.

As I’m sure a lot of you know, I’ve ridden horses all my life and although I’ve never considered it to be a high risk sport, it isn’t without it’s pitfalls. This was all brought home to me when a good mate of mine was riding a horse she rode regularly around a local, straightforward course last year. The horse slipped on the ground and she must have fallen awkwardly as she knocked herself unconscious. Luckily the paramedics were on site and they kept her safe until the Thames Valley Air Ambulance could land and lift her to safety. She was at the Intensive Care unit at the John Radcliffe hospital within 15 minutes thanks to the great service she received by the Air Ambulance. The guys working were calm and knowledgable – keeping her mum calm and reassured whilst making sure Laura was receiving the best possible care. They even travelled back to the hospital later to enquire on any progress.

I am very thankful to say that after three weeks of unconsciousness, Laura has made an amazing recovery – learning to walk, eat, ride (you name it!) again. She’s back out competing and living life to the full, which is great to see.

When the worst happens, you can only hope to rely on a service as professional and quick as the Air Ambulance to get you to safety and treatment as quickly as possible. As a horse rider, I do know more people that have made the helicopter trip than most, but they are there for everyone; drivers, walkers, riders – anyone who needs emergency treatment very quickly. And all of that with no goverment or national lottery funding! It is estimated that each mission costs £1229, which is nothing if it is the life of you or your loved one at risk, so when the time comes, please dig deep and sponsor me to run the 2012 Virgin London Marathon for the real heroes.

My winter plans have changed hugely – in the next 6 months, I’ll probably go through two pairs of trainers, run around 700 miles and eat many hundreds of thousands of calories in carbs. I have already got back out on the streets, even whilst darkness is closing in. Whilst you guys are eating lunch in the office, I’ll be sprinting round Gerrard’s Cross banging out 4 or 5 miles in my lunch hour. Yes, I get sweaty and hot, but no one has complained just yet. Well, not directly to me anyway.

Another thing I’ve had to get used to is running in the dark – I did 8 miles in the pitch black last week and didn’t know whether I was more terrified of potential rapists or holes in the ground! Either way, I ran pretty damned quick and spent most of the hour and fifteen minutes promising myself that I would just have to man up and join a running club. So for the next six months, when you guys are snuggled up in front of the fire watching Eastenders, I’ll be out plodding round the streets clocking up my miles, come wind, snow and rain. But it’s all worth it – to run the Virgin London Marathon in Olympic year is just such an amazing thing – I can’t wait!

I’m not expecting the road to the start line to be a smooth one, but don’t you worry, I’ll be right here to keep you informed. You can either live vicariously through me, or read my blog and thank your lucky stars you have a more exciting life than me. Either way, I’d love it if you checked out my Fundraising Page at some point in the next 200 days. It can be found here – http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/BryonyHarper

We went through the warm up act of Stephenson, Yates and Fedorcio were all very interesting, but lets be honest, we were keen to get on to the main act of the day. Personally, I thought that Yates came across very well, seemingly keen to help and he even bought evidence along with him so that he could answer the questions fully. Interestingly, Stephenson and Fedorcio both had an attack of shifting the blame to Yates, which he had no idea about as he was in the waiting room. It was a bit reminiscent of the Apprentice candidates sliming around the boardroom desperate to save their skins. There was a whiff of the lying that was about to come about when Stephenson claimed he wasn’t sure if it was one, two or three days before Rebekah Brooks was arrested that he knew it would happen. This didn’t happen back in 2006, it was last week! How can you have such a memory failure so quickly?

Moving on to the main act, Tom Watson opened up with the questions specifically to Rupert, and not James, Murdoch, which completely wrongfooted the two of them. James was desperate to butt in, but Watson kept telling him it was not his turn yet. Rupert Murdoch seemed like a doddery old man, who was struggling to even hear the questions. Now whilst I understand that he is 80, I do not believe that he knows so little about his own company. They finally allowed James to speak, who quickly told the committee that “News International has a zero tolerance policy of wrongdoing”. Interesting James, but it didn’t seem to stop it happening, did it? It didn’t seem to matter what the Murdochs were asked, collectively or individually, they knew nothing. I suspect that this was more a strategic collective amnesia rather than true ignorance.

At one point, Murdoch Snr claimed that News of the World was just 1% of his business and as such, he had very little knowledge of it’s running. Perhaps this could be the case, but let’s not forget that this is the newspaper that practically pays for The Times/The Sunday Times and it has dominated the UK gutter press for years. Although I can see that it is perfectly understandable that he has no direct say in the day to day decisions, I find it absolutely impossible that neither Dumb or Dumber knew anything about payments of between £600,000 and £1,000,000 to pay off various people. Even if the executives at the News of the World had managed to swindle away the odd million pounds here and another half a million there on a semi-regular basis, I can’t possibly believe that they haven’t seen the £6,000,000 missing off the bottom line at the end of the year. No sensible business person would spot that humongous amount of money missing and not question it. They did not become the great dominating force that they are without picking up on that sort of expenditure, which they could cut. To believe that they knew nothing, even after the event, is an incredibly naieve view and it is just so insulting that they think we might swallow it.

Claims were being bandied around Twitter today that Murdoch would call NOTW execs up to three times a day chasing stories, so it seems incredibly hard to believe his account that he would give the editor a call once a month just to check that everything was tickety boo. Again, is this the working of a hard nosed media mogul? I can understand them not knowing every answer, but they must have known what was likely to crop up and not to even be able to answer simple questions about their accounts was ridiculous. They could’t tell the committee whether Mulcaire’s fees were still being paid by them or whether these people that were paid off were made to sign a confidentiality clause. Their “collective ignorance” cannot have worked because it seemed so insanely obvious. It was laughable how stubbornly the Murdoch’s clung to their “I know nothing, I’m from Barcelona” routine. But then this double act of Dumb and Dumber was shattered when either Sooty or Sweep, (I couldn’t see which…) broke in and threw a custard pie at Daddy Murdoch, just between asking to have the question repeated and complimenting the committee, in order to create a bit of thinking time.

All this idiot has done, by doing this, is stop the public from being able to watch the committee freely and turn Murdoch from being a hard nosed media mogul to a frail 80 year old man, who needed sympathy and looking after. He failed completely in his mission because he turned his target into a martyr. Thankfully, they convinced the Murdochs to come back into the committee and continue answering questions. It carried on very much in the same vein, but a real highlight, or more to the point a lowlight, was when Murdoch Snr had to remind Murdoch Jnr of Milly Dowler’s name during the answer to one question. I mean to forget someones name in bed is pretty mortifying for all involved, but to forget the name of the murder victim whose phone you have hacked and voicemails you’ve deleted is just completely unforgivable.

The final question put to Rupert Murdoch was “has he considered resigning?” to which he replied “no.” Essentially, he said that everyone that he trusted had let him, and his son, down and essentially it was nothing to do with them. They were just going to fix the problem. (Honest, guv.)

So if it isn’t the fault of the Murdochs and they, as majority owners of the business, knew nothing about it. Let’s move down the ladder and talk to a chief executive, who was the editor of the paper for most of the time that these problems were occuring.

Enter Medusa, the lady whose hair is made up with a wild tangle of snakes. Worryingly I found watching Rebekah Brooks answering questions a lot easier on my blood pressure than the Murdochs. She had two methods of answering the committee. Number one; I’m under arrest and this is the subject of a police investigation, so whilst I’d love to help I can’t. Number two; I had absolutely no idea it was happening. I could talk for another thousand words about how I don’t understand how the editor didn’t know that the newspaper was paying people for their silence to the sum of millions of pounds or that the sources for their scoops weren’t always totally above board, but I sense you’ve got the message by now.

The point we really knew that she was a liar was when she (along with both Murdochs) claimed not to know about the Milly Dowler case until ten days ago. Well that’s really interesting because even Hugh Grant knew about the Dowler case in April. Even if Brooks didn’t know about it before then, someone must have bought it to her attention then. Brooks’ answers were totally and utterly shocking and a repeat of her appearance before a similar committee years before.

So to sum up, none of the three highest paid individuals at News International knew anything or take any responsibility for anything that has happened for the last ten years. Smell a rat? I smell three, at least.

Anyone who has the misfortune of following me on facebook or twitter, will probably be fully aware of what happened, but they say you have to write about what you know and this is all I’ve done of late, so here goes!

Just two weeks ago, I was busy preparing for a dressage qualifier and with the exception of a bit of a sore belly, I was completely oblivious to what was about to hit me. I woke up on the Saturday with a bit of a stomach ache, but I didn’t think too much of it. I spent the day doing all those mind numbing tasks you do in the run up to a competition; cleaning my tack, scrubbing and re-scrubbing Bea, plaiting her up and desperately learning my dressage tests. If I’d have known I wasn’t going to be competing, I wouldn’t have bothered putting all that effort in, quite frankly!

I started to feel quite under the weather when I was getting Bea ready and by the time I got in at 5pm, for a quick turn around to go out again for the evening, I knew something wasn’t quite right. I sat on the kitchen floor feeling sorry for myself and rang my friends, explaining that I wasn’t feeling 100% and I was just going to crash in bed. I was sure if I could just go to sleep, it would all go away and everything would be hunky dory. Sadly, Total Wipeout, a Top Gear repeat and Casualty came and went with me fully conscious. I had a tiny cheese sandwich and then set about feeling sorry for myself again.

I just didn’t really understand it – there seemed to be no position that I could get myself comfortable in. Every way I tried to lie down it hurt and then by about nine o clock, the pain really put it’s foot down. I have no experience in the baby department, but this felt like how I imagine the onset of labour to be. The pain rolled over me in waves, leaving me gasping for breath. I couldn’t breathe, without having to attempt deep breathing as my body gave in to my stomach. And whilst the cramps rocked along, I felt increasingly bloated and pained. I must have looked such a sorry sight; sitting on the bathroom floor, crying and gasping, whingeing that it hurt and I didn’t know what to do. My mum, bless her, half heartedly suggested NHS Direct, who told me that it could be serious, they would get a doctor to call me within six hours.

My mum decided that we should just have done with it and head off to A&E. Sadly the government cut Wycombe Hospital’s A&E department, so we trotted off to their “drop in clinic”. We didn’t make it in before the drunks started filtering through and if I were feeling in a better frame of mind, the collection of casualties would have been pretty hilarious. Starting with the gang of about thirty who were there to support someone who’d been punched by an ex boyfriend. All of her friends and family were there, being guarded by two pre-school aged policemen. Then, we had the girl who walked in claiming to have broken her leg. (Go figure!) And then the girl who was PFO, possibly PGT. (I love medical acronyms – Pissed, Fell Over, could be a candidate for Pissed, Got Thumped.) Anyway, her mates had dragged her to A&E and were trying to tell her that if she went home, she would almost certainly drop dead. However, she didn’t want mummy and daddy finding out what she’d been up to, so decided, very wisely, to refuse to give anyone her name or details and threatened any member of staff who tried to help. Eventually after plenty of swearing and an argument  between the girls, she was taken straight through to be treated. Her mates turned on a lad minding his own business in the waiting room and thankfully, he was sober enough to catch her fists as they flew towards his head. So then, they were kicked out and we were back to a bit of sanity again.

I was taken through and made to do the obligatory pregnancy and blood tests. I was told that I wouldn’t be treated until the bloods came back, which could be several hours. Working in the job I do, I found it mildly distressing that it could take so long to provide my results, but powerless, I went back out to the waiting room. My stomach wasn’t content that I was in enough distress, so then I started sweating, shaking profusely and being violently sick. I spent the next hour or so between the floor of the toilets and the front desk, begging for them to hurry up. After what felt like an age, but was a mere 2 and a half hours, I was given a bed and left for another half an hour, before I finally saw the SHO, who wasn’t very sure about anything in particular, but joyously sent a nurse in with two humongous syringes of drugs and another with a chalky drink to settle my stomach. So now I’ve been sick and sick and sick, followed by the world’s most disgusting drink of chalk. They then decided it would be best if I were nil by mouth in case they had to operate that evening. I wasn’t even allowed a sip of water to clear my mouth out. After being left for another hour, in which time the drugs kicked in, I began working out how to get to the dressage in the morning. By this point, it was 2am and my first test was 9.15 in Leighton Buzzard. I began to think that perhaps I could just do my qualifier test and then we would get an extra hour’s sleep, but it still didn’t occur to me that I wouldn’t make it.

Then the SHO reappeared with a spot of bad news; “I think you have signs of appendicitis, so I’ve referred you to Stoke Mandeville. They are expecting you imminently.” Hmm, well a friend from work went through all of this, including being referred to Stoke Mandeville only to be told it was just a niggling appendix and they didn’t plan to operate. I couldn’t think of anything worse than trekking over to Aylesbury to be sent home again, but off we trotted. I was still pretty sure I would be doing the dressage on Sunday, albeit quite tired! We got back in the car and headed across country to Stoke Mandeville, only to be re-admitted into A&E. I had a letter that would bypass me through the queues, but I still had to see the triage nurse, to have another pregnancy test. Now even without severe stomach pain, I’m not sure I could get myself knocked up between Wycombe and Aylesbury hospitals!

After a short wait whilst Stoke Mandeville found some staff to open the Surgical Admissions ward up for me, I was off to another hospital bed and being faced with another quality gown. I don’t understand hospital gowns, why do they not do up further down the back? No one needs to see that! It was now 3.30am and the surgical registrar was fussing aroung doing everything, but examining me. The nurse swabbed me for MRSA and then gave me my wristbands. It was at this point that it started to occur to me that they might not be going to let me go. I asked, very gingerly, if I was to be staying the night, which the nurse quickly confirmed. Suddenly it hit me that I wouldn’t be competing later in the morning and my mum, taken over with tiredness, headed off home for a few hours kip. Sadly, I wasn’t to be allowed such a privilege. The SHO eventually saw me and she decided that it was my appendix causing the pain, but I would have to see the registrar before she knew what they would do to me, which wouldn’t be until the ward round. In the meantime, I was best to stay nil by mouth, just in case.

The pain started to kick in once again and after a bit of to do, the registrar was called down and he decided to examine me on the spot. There is nothing quite like a hospital trip to rob you of all dignity; I didn’t know which was worse, having to breathe into his face with my minging cocktail of sick and chalk breath or suddenly realising how hairy my legs were when he went to examine my ankles! Still, I made light of the situation and told him just how mortified I was; my nan was a Ward Sister – back when they were scary – and she always told me I should wear nice underwear and have shaved legs in case I was hit by a bus. I’m not sure how much the doctor wanted to know that though, to be honest. Another round of belly tapping, wobbling, smacking and poking later, he confirmed that my appendicitis was pretty textbook – being with a generalised high pain turning into a severe localised pain, exacerbated by being hit and followed up with a fever and sickness. It was decided that I would be operated on later in the day, but for now, I should rest. Easy for him to say, but I was still nil by mouth and I was in a brightly lit ward, there was no chance I would sleep.

At around 5am, they decided to move me into another ward, which was dark and quiet so I could rest up. Sadly by the time I had done my third pregnancy test, had my blood pressure double checked and had my drip fitted, it was 5.30 in the morning and I was just nodding off when the nurses turned the lights on to get everyone up at 6am. That is another thing I just don’t understand about hospitals; why on earth do they get the patients up at 6am? It’s hardly like the patients have a lot to fit into the day! I wasn’t expecting to go into hospital, so I had nothing with me except a phone to keep my amused. Thankfully, the lovely women in the beds around me donated me some magazines to keep me amused until my mum arrived with some goodies. When I saw the consultant (and his hoarde of students) I was due another round of poking and smacking before being told that they were hoping to do keyhole surgery and “it’s most likely to be your appendix, but this way we can whip anything problematic out”. Reassuring, huh? I was then asked to sign my consent forms after being told that laparoscopic surgery has the highest risk for bowel perforation. Again, thanks doc! They told me that there were a couple of paediatric emergencies that would push their op time into the afternoon, but I was on their list for the day.

At this point, I would’ve loved to have caught up on some sleep, but with obs every thirty minutes and having a wailer in the bed opposite me, there was no chance! I soon discovered that the ward I’d been put on was a Gynae ward, which made me feel better as some half hour earlier, one of the nurses asked me if I was in my first trimester. I knew my belly was big and I was holding it protectively, but I thought that was quite cruel! The day crawled by in a cycle of pain, drugs and blood pressure readings and in the early afternoon, I was moved into a general surgery ward, where I found a veritable bunch of lunatics to share my afternoon with! Next to me was a 94 year old lady who was selectively blind and deaf, whom I kept opening my eyes to find praying over my bed. She spent her time offering us all chocolate biscuits; “Sorry Hilda, I’m nil by mouth,” That’s a shame duck, are you sure you couldn’t have a sneaky biccie?” Then there was Elsa, the feisty smoker, opposite me, who went and told the nurses “I know it’s changeover, but our beds are right next to the nurses station, so please keep your voices down. We are trying to sleep!” and they listened! She was a wiley old stick who wouldn’t take any aggro, but was hilarious. When it got to 8pm and I still hadn’t heard anything about my op, she made her way over to my bed with a butter knife from dinner offering to lend me a hand!

Finally at 9pm, the anaesthetist came round to tell me that I would be next and he would come to get me in about an hour. It got to 10.30pm and we were all having a good chin wag about nothing when the nurse in charge of our bay came in and exclaimed that she was having problems with the computer, was I any good in Excel? I made my way out to the nurses station, flashing my underwear at all and sundry through my useless hospital gown. It was soon clear that the nurses station wasn’t designed for patients to go behind with their drip stand, but she hoisted it over the desk and set me to work. It was at that moment the anaesthetist came back to collect me. He said to the nurse, “I need one Bryony Harper”, to which I looked up from the desk and said “Yay! That’s me.” He looked a little confused to say the least; “are you meant to be sitting there?!”

The operation itself was a breeze. Well, what would I know? I was unconscious and happily came round at 3.30am in recovery. I was slightly concerned that my bandages appeared to be on the left side of my stomach and more upsettingly, they had fitted me with a catheter, but I was alive and vaguely kicking. To perform laparoscopic surgery, they inflate your body with carbon dioxide to open your cavities, so I awoke feeling a little like a helium balloon, inflated up to the nth degree, but I was barely back in the ward before I was asleep. I managed to only wake briefly for my hourly obs, but then they got me up again at 6am for drugs.

By 8am, they were trying desperately to get me out of bed; it was only when I pointed out that I wasn’t being lazy, but the drip was tied to one side of the bed and the catheter to the other, that the nurse saw my point of view. Thankfully, they whipped the catheter straight out and told me that as long as I behaved, I could go home. The conditions were that I had to eat 1 sandwich, have 3 wees and see the consultant. I was dressed and ready to go by 10am, but by midday, the pharmacy had yet to send my drugs up and I was awaiting a sick note. I fell asleep for the first time all weekend, to be woken at 2pm, by the pharmacy and then my mum.

Granted, the hospital wouldn’t let me take the lovely intravenous flow of drugs home, but my doggy bag was in impressive haul of metronidazole, tramadole, paractemol, ciprofloxacin and clarithromycin. My experiences at Stoke Mandeville were excellent; the staff were so patient and friendly, but I was ready to go home and sleep for a week. The first week was rough; I spent most of it with a fever and high temperature, sleeping fitfully and waking up in a cold sweat, but that has passed. Now, you will quite possibly hear me coming before you see me,with my wheelbarrow to carry my big swollen, muscle-less post op belly! I’m just desperate to get back to normality. Sadly my body isn’t quite ready as my mind and I suffered today after being a bit too active yesterday when I had a visit from Florrie and Rhys. Tomorrow I expect I’ll be sore after my little ride this afternoon, but I’m getting there.

It struck me that walking back into the garage to see my tack in it’s pristine pre-competition state was quite a sweet metaphor. Today I was walking back into my life back again after a very brief pause.

There is one thing that really bothered me during the trip and that was my flight. The last couple of flights I’ve taken have been with EasyJet – it hasn’t been a personal choice, it just happens that they are the only buggers that fly where I want to go! As they have taken me on my last 3 trips, I don’t know if this phenomenon that I experienced is a SleazyJet speciality or something that happens across the board. I shall endeavour to explain to you good tweeple what happened.

Our flight left Gatwick at 7am and I plugged my earphones in and tried my hardest to sleep for as long as possible before giving in to the boredom of the plane. I am not complaining about the flight in general; I mean sure, the orange seat covers were a little bright at 7am and it would have been nice if the seats tilted from the upright position, but beggars can’t be choosers. My biggest issue was ignoring the ludicrously chirpy colleagues scattered about the plane after all, they don’t deserve the pain of seeing me at 7am. The journey continued fairly much as normal. I didn’t buy a coffee for £8 or a box of crisps for £4. I did man up a little and brave it into the toilets, which was something I regretted fairly quickly.

Eventually, the seatbelt lights flashed back on and it was time to begin our descent. It was not a challenging landing; there were no gale force winds throwing us off course or gremlins dancing where the plane was due to land. We touched down in a fairly normal way. I didn’t recognise it as an especially smooth or special landing, which made the next event very curious. Over half the aircraft burst into cheers and were clapping heartily.

Where does one even begin with behaviour like that?! The captain was on the other side of a thick door, hopefully concentrating on more important things than his customers heaping adulation onto him. He wouldn’t have been able to hear or appreciate their praise. I thought this was quite odd, but perhaps people were just in high spirits because they had reached their holiday destination. Until I cast my mind back to my flights in and out of Montpellier in September and then back even further to Innsbruck in March. It seems that it is an EasyJet trend. Is flying with SleazyJet so high risk that you are, quite frankly, simply thankful to be alive at the end of it? If I had known this, I might have considered alternative transport; perhaps swimming or cycling my way there.

I am not saying that pilots have an easy job; they train very hard to do what they do, but they are also remunerated generously for that job. I am pretty sure that landing the plane safely falls well inside their job description and their remit. It isn’t an added extra. It’s not as though he said on the loudspeaker: “Good morning ladies and gentleman. Soon we’ll be touching down Tenerife South, but in the meantime, I’m going to treat you to a loop the loop. I’m not really meant to do it, but I thought it would be nice to welcome you in style.” If he carried that off, I would have applauded him. But he didn’t, he simply did what he was paid to do.

No one applauds me at the end of a day in the office. In fact, some days it is quite the opposite. Nobody congratulates me on shutting down my computer correctly and surely this is the same thing? Yes, I don’t kill hundreds of people if I don’t do it correctly, but I’m not trained or paid for that level of responsibility.

I would love to do some kind of test and find out if this phenomenon has spread to other carriers; I cannot imagine a British Airways flight landing from Schipol at 7pm on a Friday full of weary businessmen and women bursting into spontaneous applause. Why not? Because they are fully aware that the pilot is paid to fly AND LAND the plane. It is not an add on, it is not something we should be grateful for, it is something we should expect as normal.

I went to Budgens to get my lunch today, as I do every day, and bought all the things I buy, every day. One Muller light yogurt for tomorrow’s breakfast, check. One Plum Tomato and Basil New Covent Garden Soup, check. Two Cox’s apples, check. I went to the same till and was served by the same, weird socially inept boy. As I was paying, he asked me if I wanted a bag. I thought for a milisecond and replied “no, they drive me insane.”

Without a second thought, he said “oh, because they are so bad for the environment?”

Now at this point, I could have left the conversation with a scrap of dignity. Instead, I chose to do the Bryony thing of digging a hole and jumping head first in. “Phh, middle class guilt” I mock, before saying “my desk drawer is full of Budgens bags. It’s driving me insane.”

There are a couple of things wrong with this conversation. Firstly and most importantly, I think, my desk drawer is not full of Budgens bags. What on earth possessed me to say it was? I think I thought it would be entertaining, but I didn’t allow myself long enough to work it out in my head. My second issue with my response is that no matter how much I bash the Daily Mail and the Express, I do think that by my parentage, I am unmistakably middle class.

Now is that what I really think? Am I really a heartless, uncaring bastard who throws life away without a second thought? I hope not. I get a little bit wound up when people say “I would recycle, but my efforts alone are worthless” or something to that effect. If we all think that, then nothing would ever change. Having said that, I’m not as good as I could be. Typical of the casual lunch-time shopper, I forget to take canvas (or other bags) with me when I buy my lunch. The problem is, there are so many things that we have to remember in life and this one isn’t one that pains me enough to remind me to change my lifestyle.

I have no idea what the size of my carbon footprint is, but in the modern age it seems so hard to change that. I make an effort to unplug my phone charger when I’m not using it and I turn my laptop off. Thing is, I can’t see that that makes a huge difference. I work for a company that employs over 5000 people and we don’t even recycle our paper. I worked for Tesco and we lectured our customers to recycle when we threw away reams and reams of plastic. The big fat cats need to take some responsibility as well as us. I’m more than happy to try my best, but my efforts are nothing compared to them.

Alone, our attempts are futile, but perhaps it’s time to remember that we aren’t alone. We are all taking a small step to change the world and as such, we are together. We are making a difference. So next time, don’t be like me and use that excuse as thinly veiled disguise for your laziness.

So, what do I want to get out of 2011? Everyone keeps asking me about my bloody resolutions and I just can’t be bothered with them. It’ll only be something I fail to do later in the year. Having said that, there are always things I want to change. I need to go on my usual post Christmas diet, which is really dull and so I won’t bore you with the details. I need to start running again, afterall, I’m doing the Rat Race Soldier Challenge at the end of March and that will require a certain level of fitness. I did a Green Belter last June and I’m hoping that the Soldier Challenge will have more soldier-y men and slightly less excersion. I think that that is a great reason to do something. These aren’t really resolutions, just ongoing internal conversations I have with myself.

If I sat down at the beginning of each year and listed what I wanted to achieve, I would only end up disappointing myself. The minute you set yourself these silly expectations, you don’t go a day without letting yourself down. It’s much better to consider everything you have done, which you weren’t planning/thinking you’d be able to do, as a bonus. You can’t say things like “this year, I am going to get a promotion” because it is outside your control. Of course, you can try and increase the probability of one of those things happening by working towards it, but don’t set your sights on it. You will inevitably get disappointed. I know that fate is a pretty flawed notion, but there is no point worrying about things, they will happen whenever they happen. There will be thousands of opportunities to do the things you want to do, you just need to have the sense to grab one and stick with it.

All in all, 2010 hasn’t been a bad year. Sure, it’s had it’s fair share of rough moments, but it’s also had some really lovely moments. I’ve spent a good deal of the year being really selfish, doing all the things I love. Comedy. Horses. Comedy. Horses. And a few other bits too. I’ve had some brilliant times along the way with friends, both new and old. Those two passions send me all around the country and they aren’t something I want to lose. I plan to see and experience as much as I can, whilst I can. I don’t think it’ll be too difficult. My mum bought me a series of tickets for shows at the Swan for Christmas including Jimmy Carr and Ed Byrne. Plus, I know that my comedy loving friends won’t take no for an answer easily, so I suppose I ought to show willing and drag myself down to the Comedy Store every now and then. (That is how it is. I’m not delusional or anything.)

A colleague told me to put all the things I can change close to me and draw a line around them. Anything outside of that line is not worth worrying about because there is very little you can do about it. I laughed when she told me, but on closer inspection it does hold up. So here is a toast for 2011 and whatever the hell it will bring! I know that I’ll love the good and cherish the memories forever and the bad? Well, hopefully my delightful friends and family will help me to weather the storm.

So, what was I up to? First of all, I faced my biggest fear and went to visit Libby the hygienist. All was going well. I made it to the appointment without cancelling it. I controlled my shaking in the waiting room. I made it through the appointment without ripping my hand from it’s clenched position on the chair to hit her. It was nearly over, she’d done the drilling and the water spraying and the rasping. All she had to do was floss me. So what did she do? I have one wisdom tooth left, which is under the surface and perfectly happy. It was anyway, until she caught the floss with it and ripped a lump of my gum off, at which point, I nearly hit the ceiling. She smiled apologetically and carried on. I thought nothing more of it until I woke up on Saturday morning to find that one half of my face was twice the size that it used to be and it was throbbing.

The pain was severe enough that I wanted to go back to the dentist to get it sorted out. I rang them up to ask for an emergency appointment, which they happily gave me. On Monday afternoon. So, a weekend of severe agony later, I ran back to the dentist barely able to open my mouth. He barely needed to look in my mouth to see what the problem was. I had an infection from her instrument. A hefty prescription later, I found myself with horse strength co-codamol in one hand and Metronidazole in the other. Now for those not in the know, Metronidazole is often prescribed for MRSA and given how I got the infection, I wasn’t best pleased. Anyhow, best take the tablets and be done with it. Except, you can’t drink with Metronidazole, or for ten days after, which was going to run up to Christmas. Everyone told me to ignore it, but I had done my research and if you so much as sniffed alcohol, you were violently sick, so I wasn’t going there.

The pain carried on for a few more days – I could only drink through a straw and even that hurt, but the pills made me mega thirsty, so I was drinking by the bucket. I stumbled on through the agony to pop over to East London to see Tim Minchin performing at the 02 and boy, I’m glad I did. I officially love the man. Well, I did anyway, but the combination of a beautiful orchestra, Tim’s amazing piano skills and his fantasically hilarious songs made it an amazing evening. Opening the show with a song proclaiming that “nothing ruins comedy like arenas” and “my ego is all you can see from the back”, I was glad to see that Tim was pretty aware of how hideous massive gigs can be.

It was a pretty amazing evening; I know nothing about music, but he seems like a pretty amazing pianist to me and his songs are fantastic. He played a combination of old classics including Rock and Roll Nerd, Prejudice and If I Didn’t Have You, and new songs. I always remember him saying “if you adhere to any of the major monotheist doctrines, you might wanna pop out for about five minutes” and it’s true, he is a fundamentalist atheist (if that isn’t a contradiction in itself). But what he picks apart is the blind faith people have and the refusal of institutions to move forward. To this end, one of the best new songs was about Sam’s Mum who was diagnosed with a degenerative eye condition and after praying at her church, it seemed to disappear. Tim’s way with words was just magnificent, claiming that God wasn’t going to focus on third world poverty, but fix the eyes of one woman, afterall he is an “omnipotent opthalmologist”.

Anyhow the reviews speak for themselves and you don’t want to read my ramblings about a show you didn’t go to. Rest assured it was a fabulous night, quickly followed by day at Olympia Horse Show with work, giving 75 customers a day of lectures and horsey stuff. The day was spent on fast forward rushing from place to place, but we did see Clare Balding and Stuart, the really young annoying bloke from The Apprentice.

Since then, I’ve been pretty snowed in, so have been rushing around to buy my presents in my lunch breaks and as such, will be baking a cake on Boxing Day for the kiddlywinks coming to stay the day after. As if we won’t have enough food.

Enough of my ramblings, there are plenty of leftovers downstairs that need seeing to. Plus, I must go and wake my mother up. She insisted on watching Tim Minchin – yes, on Christmas Day. Any Christians in the room may be close to having kittens at that thought, but it’s what she wanted. It doesn’t matter anyway, she feel asleep about half an hour in. It’s not quite an insult, she said “I’m listening to the words, which is easier with my eyes closed.” I don’t believe her though. Sorry Tim!
Anyway, happy holidays to you all. Just think, only three more days to spend in confinement with the family before we get to go back to work.  I realise that this blog has been all over the place and crap in so many ways, but I just wanted to drop in with a couple of updates. (My mouth is all healed now by the way, thanks for asking.) I will be back before the year end with a traditional end of year cop out compilation blog! Until then, eat, drink, pass out!

I think to do English at Reading, I would have needed BBB, whereas for Sociology, I only needed BCC. Needless to say, I got the necessary grades to study English anyway. I studied English and Sociology in my first year and after my exams, I decided that English was the choice for me.

How did I chose what university to study at? Well, I knew I wanted to stay at home. This wasn’t because I was shy or scared  to leave home, but it was a selfish desire to have my metaphorical cake and eat it. I didn’t want to give my horses up for three years. If I lived away at university, then I couldn’t have afforded to do that and keep my horses. Simples as the meerkats say.

I wasn’t too sure whether university was the right option for me, so I planned to defer for a year to see how I felt. It was simply the threats about the hikes in tuition fees that sent me to uni so quickly. When we went, it cost £1050 a year. The year after us, paid around £3000. I couldn’t afford to pay £3000 a year, let alone the £9000 a year that is being threatened now. I left university with about £10,000 worth of debt. I had around half of that money sitting in an ISA, but as it was an interest free loan, I used it to buy a (nearly) brand new car. With pink flowers on.

It’s quite scary that I am 23 years old, have no house or anything of great ownership to speak of, but I have a £10k debt. Yet, one of the girls I work with, did not go to uni and at 21, she has bought her first house and is getting married in four months. I’m not saying that I should have done that, but I have achieved nothing compared to her, which is most unfair.

It’s difficult to say whether going to university has helped me in the world of work. I’m not sure I would have got the job I’ve got as my first job, without the aid of a degree, but I would have had three years of income to build up to it. Regardless of that, I loved my three years at uni and without it, I feel that I would be a very different person.

So where does my experience fit in with the current student protests? I don’t think the education I received was worthy of paying £9000 a year. For those not familiar with the university calendar; the year is made up of three ten week terms. Each term has one “reading week”, which has no lectures or seminars to allow you to complete your assigned essays. You rarely had lectures or seminars in the final week of term either. Then, the summer term was mainly made up of revision time and exams. So in my first year, I had a pretty full on schedule, with at least three or four hours of contact time a day. But by the second year, that had dropped to 3 lecture hours and 3 seminar hours a week. And by my final year, I had a couple of 2 hour seminars a week. Now I don’t want to sound fussy, but is 8 hours of contact time a term really worth £9000? That means that every hour long seminar in my final year was worth about £600. Absolutely absurd.

I find it deeply upsetting that the politicians that are bringing about these changes were all educated in the countries finest universities without paying a single penny. In fact, a lot of them were given grants to go. And now they are pulling up the rope ladder behind them. It’s disgusting. I have thought about this all week, trying to work out why it changed so much and I think I finally have the answer. The Labour Party has spent the last ten years encouraging absolutely everybody to go to university, which has not only devalued the degree but also means that the country can no longer afford to pay for all of the futures doctors, nurses and lawyers.

The problem I see with the huge hike in tuition fees is that you are just as likely to put off the future doctors and lawyers as you are those who are studying for the sake of studying. I don’t have a perfect solution and I don’t know what to do for the best, but I think you have to distinguish between those studying for a vocation and those not. We are always complaining that we are perilously low in teachers, doctors and other key skills. So why not make their fees lower? Or offer generous grants? After all, they are going to be contributing enormously to the economy.

Having said all this, the loan repayments are taken out of your pay before you even see it and you pay so little back each month, that you will never really notice it. In fact, in 18 months of full time employment, I think I have paid off about £750. Assuming that I will have paid off £1000 by the time I hit the 2 year mark, then I will have paid off my debt in another 18 years. Then if we assume that sometime during the next 18 years, I may get married and have children, I will pause paying it back for a year or so. So, now I’ll be in my mid fifties and paying it back. Scary.

Is it worth it? Who knows. I stand by my decision to go to university, but realistically, I’m not sure it’s worth all that money. It took me a good 9 months trying to get a job when I graduated. Even for the most basic job, I would get turned down because they had chosen to take on the graduate with the years experience already. There was no way to distinguish between people as everyone seems to have a degree. It’s not what it used to be. Perhaps the government need to work harder on introducing more vocational and training courses, without trying to get everyone to go through the university system. That way, prospective employers can begin to distinguish between candidates once more.

I’m not even going to start on the rent -a- mob and the violent protests that are going on. I respect what they are trying to achieve, but you won’t get your own way by throwing your toys out of the pram.