Rain has been the main cause of my quietness lately – and perhaps dark nights, and the fact that I am not a fan of November – but rain needs to take a large share of responsibility for literally raining on every parade I have participated in; it is hard not to take this personally. I am probably being over dramatic if I claim this to be my PW (Personal Worst) but it is far from my Best.

I was quiet over the school half term break because I set myself a challenge of staying ahead on my cottage renovation. If I could stand on a step ladder long enough, my intention was to get two bedrooms painted, and dance around the plasterer who still had one ceiling to finish. If I could complete this sprint, I told myself that I would be ahead of the carpet fitter and removal van. I started to boast that although I had become a recluse, I was now the owner of a painter’s elbow (not sure if this is a medical diagnosis even on Dr Google) and loved it when my landlords came to show me how to wield a paintbrush properly, and my hairdresser appeared to correct all my wiggly ‘cutting in’, because if he can’t cut in a straight line there is no hope for the rest of us. He also pointed out that my highlights need doing. ( Reader, forget the distracting paint in my hair, note that I have familiarised myself with decorating terms like ‘cutting in’ and ‘wash coat’.).

By the end of the week I am shattered, but return to work at school noting that I am (just) ahead of where I need to be (this is a new feeling) and have even taken delivery of new kitchen units (they are in the wrong place, admittedly, but I quite like them in the front room – so much easier for snacking when you watch tv). It is a miracle that these units are even in the house, because the delivery van arrived with one infirm driver; I had to break it to him that he and I would need to carry his van load up the 30 steps to the cottage. I assured him I am First Aid trained. These units are at least now in the house (I will take this win) and the old units have been skipped. Mile 24 of a marathon by my reasoning.

Amidst this frenzy of DIY, I start my significant birthday year experiences early (I will blog about this another time for I am far too busy grumping in this instalment). My book club ladies invite me to my first ever wild swim in a moonlit quarry (later, I tell you). Despite the weather forecast, thankfully at the start of this Wim Hof adventure the only water is in the quarry, and it is on the return journey that the rain comes lashing down. So quick am I to jump out of my chauffeur driven car when it drops me back at home, that I fail to notice my phone leap from my lap and land in a large puddle by the side of the busy road. Long story, but it ends as best it can, when I am reunited with my phone following a head – torched, finger tip search of the surrounding area. Amazingly the phone still works, and I quite like its retro lava lamp look.

Looking back, that evening was the precursor to Storm Babet’s grand entrance . Babet and I are not good friends; in my opinion she is a vindictive and pernicious destroyer of plasterboard and roof tiles. I soon receive a call from my plasterer to say that Babet has undone all his good work in the spare bedroom. Let us just say that it is not just the ceiling that is leaking at this point, my eyes have started to demonstrate copy cat behaviour.

Babet is not satisfied; I receive a call from my kitchen fitter (get me with my list of trade contacts) to tell me that Babet’s pal Ciaran has now joined the storm fest and I am also the owner of a freshly leaking kitchen roof. I knew there was a gaping area around my loosely hanging kitchen window and have a new lintel on order to redress this crime (get me), but this roof news is new mischief. My electrician is not impressed and refuses to certificate the rewiring of my new kitchen, quite understandably. I beg him not to throw in the towel and promise I will get things sorted.

I cry some more. Everything I touch is turning damp. I wring out my handkerchief and use it as a cold compress on my forehead.

Fortunately I realise that I am not a character in a Jane Austen novel and have no smelling salts; this attitude is not productive and I can only blame myself for having always wished to live near water. I remind myself that I am now a wild swimmer (flipping livid, actually) and brave myself to visit the property and assess the situation calmly; I soon note that my half term paintwork is now also looking soggy. I sulk in a manner which is unhelpful and childish. I eventually face the inevitable and call both the carpet fitter and the removal company and tell them to stand down for the foreseeable future. I note that they may not be needed in 2023 because I may become preoccupied notching up a criminal record to acquire funds for a new roof. My significant birthday may need to wait – this could potentially be good news if I can pull it off.

Ironically, my building contingency fund is the only thing not looking solvent at the moment.

In other water-related news, my plumber tells me that he thinks the installation of my new water meter means I have unwittingly started paying some of my neighbour’s water bill – for my kitchen refit has unearthed some Heath Robinson bodge-job piping. This is news to my neighbour (lovely man, but as a keen bather and Koi carp pond owner, I would like him even better if he agrees to stand on his own feet financially). I need my neighbour to be water tight and so I re-engage with the waterboard. More delay.

Last weekend, fatigued with treading water, I decide to gift myself a holiday from my lovely cottage while I wait for roofing information (#informeddecisions). Socially I am terrible company but set myself a time limit on this self-imposed pity party. At least my painter’s elbow condones my decision to down tools. My head is full of catastrophe and doommongery (I may have made this word up), but thankfully I am distracted when I am reminded that I am booked into a trail half marathon with my sister in law and running husband.

On the Sunday morning we arrive in the appropriate Welsh forest for the start of this run. Although Saturday was almost tropical, on the Sunday morning it is lashing down. Of course it is.

Last year my sister-in-law and I completed this same run – my first ever trail (I blogged about it) and, at the end, we sat in the sunshine cheering the other runners in and eating ice-cream. This year, I do not want to leave their car and I refuse to join the admittedly short queue for the portaloos. My companions decide that the day will be an adventure and swim across the car park to the runners’ HQ – a very inviting cafe. I join them in a surly fashion, pretending that I have left my trail shoes at home.

All the runners huddle in this cafe area and there is some surreptitious sharing of photos depicting various checkpoints around the course – photos ‘leaked’ by the marshalls to hint that bog snorkelling will be de rigour if any runner is to make it as far as Checkpoint 11 which looks especially unstable. I glance to the desk where you collect your running number and note a stash of uncollected envelopes. I wonder if I can return my envelope without losing face. All the other runners – including my friends – are cheerful. There is a brisk bin-liner trade and some dry robe comparititis going on. I look at my running pals and realise that neither are considering either throwing in the towel or a DNF. I remind myself that I am well-practised in prat-falling in both mud and rain; I have trained for these conditions – and my training conditions recently have been intemperately ideal.

As we huddle in the starting pen – sliding around and holding each other upright in the mud – my sister-in-law grins at me and says, ‘this is another first, we can go for our Personal Worst’. I like this repositioning and I accept her challenge.

I grace this blog with photos from both this year’s and and last year’s run to remind myself that we journey through all seasons, surrounded by lovely people even when we get a lashing and the going is tough. I will end by saying that I did not fall – none of us did. It was cold and very wet but we did finish with a proud and defiant PW and some very welcome coffee and flapjack. Sometimes it is good to switch off your head and just concentrate on where you place your feet. We have never been so far down the field in a race, but at least we made it to the field. I trust that there will be ice cream again in the future.

Refreshed from my self-imposed break from DIY, today I return to the cottage and stick up a little post-it note next to one of the leaking ceilings with a quote from Maya Angelou:

‘Every storm runs out of rain.’

I will appreciate a rainbow when it comes and I do hope that one appears behind the scaffolding tower that I trust will appear on Wednesday accompanied by two roofers. I may need that crock of gold to pay for the labour. I am digging deep to return to my Personal Best and acknowledge that there is no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong clothing. My trail shoes are nearly dry again and I view this as good news.