HUSBAND’S birthday arrives and friends are gathered for a night on the town.

When I say birthday it perhaps gives a false impression. He prefers to celebrate his birth annually with a week-long celebration, believing that he deserves to feel special for more than just one day.

The night out is going well and husband is feeling the love in the room.

Then for some reason it all goes blurry as we swap long drinks for very short potent ones that taste of sour apples and strepsils.

The night ends with an explosive cocktail called a Jaeger Bomb, which goes off in the head and lingers the next day reminding us that we are now over 40 and not 25.

Make a mental note to stick to the more predictable gin and tonic next time.

A day later husband proves that as the body gets older it can also get faster, recording a personal best time in the Cirencester 10k.

I cheer him on with the children and, with the sun shining, actually feel slightly envious of the sense of achievement that he must feel.

Okay, so I’m proud of my raspberries and I do have a sense of achievement at having grown whopping cobs of corn, but where is the glory?

I want to taste the adulation of the screaming crowd willing me to cross the line. I want a piece of that action.

Not surprisingly I am easily persuaded when a fellow non-runner suggests that we enter the race next year. "Just because we enter doesn’t mean we’re committed to doing it, right?" I say, desperate for a get-out if things go wrong.

Jaeger Bombs are a distant memory. The training starts here.