So, I'm back from Mull, and I have to tell you: it was SENSATIONAL. I take back every bad thought I ever had and every snarky comment I ever made about spending my precious week of summer holiday in a cottage on an island in rain-sodden Scotland. The sun shone, the birds sang, the cows gave Smidgen the stink-eye; it was perfect.

So perfect, in fact, that I couldn't possibly bring myself to tarnish the experience by doing something as sweaty and unpleasant as running. I was on holiday.  I think we can all agree that holidays are not for running. Holidays are for eating. And drinking.

But time and athletic pursuits wait for no man, so on Sunday I duly donned my pink t-shirt and ran my race. That's right: RAN IT. It wasn't exactly a fast time by international standards, but given the lack of training and week of holiday excess that directly preceded it, it wasn't bad. As I crossed the finish line, I was beaming. Who needs training?

Ha. Ha ha ha.

Believe me, I'm not smiling now. I'm hobbling. Every time I stand up, my muscles pop and shriek. I keep letting out inappropriate moans in the office. It's getting awkward. I'm shuffling around the place like the only single man at the seniors' disco. So apparently training isn't such a terrible idea after all. Who knew?

When I've recovered full use of my limbs, I'll be back with a thrilling rundown of our holiday (in short: eat, shower, eat, spectacular scenery, eat, drink, eat, drink, sleep, repeat). Until then, I just want to say a heartfelt thank you to all of you who supported me, sponsored me, shouted at me (Ellie and Penny, I'm sorry I didn't listen to you) and generally reminded me the world is full of good people.

Thank you. From me, from my mum, and from all of us affected by cancer.