Some Women Just Aren't Built To Jog.

Sep 30 2007 Alison Craig

I'm Ma Broon Enough Round The Chest Without A Joggers' Droop

MONDAY

David's a bit quiet today. I don't need Hercule Poirot to deduce this could be something to do with the rugby match he went to yesterday.

"I'm not drinking," he declares ridiculously as he leaves with my dad to have a bar lunch before the game.

I give him a disbelieving look. "Well, not much," he adds with no conviction whatsoever.

At 8pm the phone goes and a familiar croaky voice squawks, "Look out the window now!" I run to the window half expecting to see him lying in the middle of the road having fallen over but there is no sign.

Suddenly, amid hooting and hollering, a rickshaw comes into sight with a fair amount of ballast from the rear from David and my dad.

They are waving to all the neighbours as the poor, strong-legged man cycles them to our door. I shout for my mum to come and see it and she bursts out laughing as we watch the pair of them trying to get out of the rickshaw, wearing tartan toories, with red, ruddy, grinning faces. A good day out then.

TUESDAY

David has to go to Perth to meet a water diviner. "A what?" I ask. "A water diviner," he says as if this is an every day occurrence. Apparently a pal needs to find water on his farm and a water diviner can find it using his special sticks. He has a 96 per cent success rate.

Oh God, I can feel a career change coming on. David's ideal job would be stomping round the hills of Scotland, divining sticks in hand. As he leaves I toss his toorie to him. "You'll need that," I shout as he grabs his wellies and disappears. Six hours later he is back and reveals they found water. All they need to do is test its quality and they are back in business. Who'd have thought it?

WEDNESDAY

"Happy Birthday to me..." I'm too old, too wobbly and still game for behaving appallingly. Dave takes me out for dinner. We start in a bar and order two glasses of champagne to celebrate - then we learn it costs £14 per glass. We leave pronto and head to the restaurant.

After a quick swally or two at the bar we order our food. I start with langoustines while Dave goes for scallops. It finally arrives 20 minutes after we order.

A cocktail glass is put down in front of me with a layer of brown sludge and a layer of green on top. There is no sign of a langoustine. I poke about and eventually find one. On its own it would have been gorgeous but in this primordial soup it is literally inedible.

"Geez it here," says my hero husband offering to swap starters. "It's your birthday." The scallops are lovely but I give him back half because he can't eat the gunge either. The waiter collects our dishes and doesn't ask why one is virtually untouched.

Our main course arrives an hour later - yes, 60 minutes - by which time we are starving and half-cut having scooped a fair amount of wine on virtually empty stomachs.

There's no apology for the lengthy wait and I can't really remember what my main course tasted like - by now I just want to bail out. As well as poor service there is also no atmosphere - when Dave goes to the loo I text him begging him to hurry up. Dear God, where is Gordon Ramsay when you need him?

THURSDAY

I feel awful after too much booze and practically no food. My cousin Patricia sympathises with my bad head.

She was out with my pal Lynne - a meeting of bad behaviourists. Their respective, long-suffering husbands sat as they yacked on, swigging and laughing.

At one point Patricia's arm caught the side of her glass of red, which went up, as if in slow motion, and began heading straight for Lynne's husband Andy, who miraculously manipulated his body out of the way in time so it didn't touch him. "How did you do that?" asked Patricia, impressed at his deft movements. "I'm married to Lynne - I've had years and years of practice."

FRIDAY

Lunch with the girls today. As soon as word hits the front of house it is a birthday celebration, a bottle of champagne arrives at the table. Wonderful! This sets the scene for the afternoon, which has all the makings of going on all night. Three courses and numerous bottles of wine later, we offer to adopt the staff, beg the chef for the recipes and get oxtered into a taxi. Happy birthday to me! What a great day.

SATURDAY

Have been going speed-walking with my pal Fiona and her dog Daniel the spaniel. Every morning we do a onehour walk. As we stroll endless joggers whizz past us.

We have to admit, the joggers are much thinner than the walkers. Still, as my new sports bra proves, there are certain shapes of women who are just not built to jog.

I am Ma Broon enough round the chest without a joggers' droop. That's the bad thing about a birthday, it means I'm another year older and the risk of everything going south grows closer by the day.

MY BIRTHDAY DINNER IS A DISASTER. MY STARTER IS BROWN SLUDGE THEN I WAIT AN HOUR FOR MY MAIN COURSE. WHERE'S GORDON RAMSAY WHEN YOU NEED HIM?

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Editor: Liz Cowan l.cowan@sundaymail.co.uk Deputy editor: Mickey McMonagle m.mcmonagle@sundaymail.co.uk

Production editor: Hamish Burns Writer: Avril Cadden a.cadden@sundaymail.co.uk Picture research: Su Holliday