Divine inspiration

Well that went fast – a couple of days ago I was sweltering in Spain putting off packing till the very last minute in a mirror image of packing to go on holiday – even down to the three last minute visits to a pharmacy. (Thank you, Jose, the pharmacist, for a) calling us a cab when the half-hourly bus sailed straight past us, b) finding us industrial strength Spanish Lemsip for Cleo’s sore throat, c) advising us on Jack’s blocked ears before our flight home and last but not least d) advising us and finding us the bicarbonate of soda to turn Cleo’s witchy green locks back to blonde after an excess of sun and chlorine. Ketchup also works.

So here we are, home again, wrapped up in jumpers with only our peeling noses and brown feet on display amidst a swirl of wind and rain. We’ve swapped tricolour salad for tomato soup and toast and instead of bouncing around the pool on an inflatable green crocodile we are bouncing up and down on the sofa watching the European athletics championships. While the British women were limbering up for the 4 x 400m relay, I was winning the medal for endurance laundry. Four loads a day and counting. How I hate packing away sunglasses and swimsuits when the rain is lashing down outside.

Thank goodness for Mo – in a world turned upside down by horrors at home and all over the world Mo Farah gave us so much to cheer and laugh about. Whether he’s kicking for the home straight, slipping in his congrats for Arsenal or mugging for the cameras like a naughty ten year old he appears to have a heart of as much gold as the medals he can’t stop winning.

If it wasn’t for him I wouldn’t have given yesterday’s athletics a second glance, but I couldn’t resist the squeals from the sofa as Katy called me over to say it was “an hour to Mo time”. I didn’t move for the rest of the afternoon as the UK seemed to rack up medal after medal until it was time to watch (through the anxious forest of fingers I usually only need to deploy when Federer or Murray are playing) Mo shake off his alleged poor form as easily as he did Hayle Ibrahimov, the Azerbaijani pretender for his crown.

Along the way I watched the UK women’s 4 x 400m win the Bronze on washboard stomachs to die for and later the 4 x 100m women’s team win gold before they are barely out of school. How do they do that? I may not get to Zurich but I’m determined to wear a crop top next summer, but until then I’m only jogging after dark or in heavy disguise. Now where did I pack away those sunglasses? If running in shades is good enough for Mo it’s good enough for me. I knew it was too soon to give up on them this summer…

Posted by Amanda Blinkhorn