google-site-verification: google935433b691795853.html KRISTY BERRIDGE

Tuesday, 21 July 2015

As promised I'm back for the monthly tribute to this site, a chance for me to inform those who might be interested (probably very few), and those who are creepy stalkers (you know who you are), with the plethora of nothingness that occurs in my every day life.
Yes, I will regale you with stories of the mundane and trim it up nicely with a bit of wordsmithing so you actually think it might be worth dropping back each month just to see what I'm on about this time.
Today I offer you a simple review of the month that's been.
Well actually, I should probably mention before I get started that despite the fact that I'm a writer, I don't sit with my nose pressed against the LCD of my laptop or wittle away at the keypad until I'm arthritic and a little fat from eating pizza pockets. I actually get out and do things, like sniff fresh air and admire how green grass can be.
In the last six months I've taken up running, not from crazy people with butcher's knives or shopkeepers screaming at me to return their merchandise, but running for pleasure.
Now that doesn't sound right at all, does it?
1. Breathing becomes laboured and the chance of inhaling bugs increases.
2. Boobs tend to assault you with every leap and bound (my nose will never be the same)
3. Weird and wonderful stenches drift from every nether region despite the liberal use of over the counter deoderant.
4. Every pair of underwear finds some way of setting up permanant residence in your butt.
And yet, despite these seemingly depressing reminders of why it's stinky and possibly hazardous to run, I can't seem to stop. In fact, I run away from everything now; monthly blog posts, old boyfriends, chocolate dairy products ...
Anyway, I started running to not only save said expanding butt, but to use the time to think about my writing and where it could head in the future, and yet, do you know what the irony of entering into this new hobby has helped promote with my other passion? Absolutely nothing. I can't bloody think about writing at all. In fact, all I can consider as I pound the pavement, one foot in front of the other, is whether or not my pace is good, my shoelaces tied, and where the next water stop might be.
So now I have two loves in which neither really helps the other, but I suppose since it gave me this month's inspiration, I shouldn't exactly discount the validitity.
Until next time then ...

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