Got up. Had breakfast. Feet up. Race done.

My goal of running the Edinburgh Marathon was derailed in Lille, France, two weeks ago.

I had a throat infection, I thought it was going, but it ballooned with a vengeance when I was in Lille, on holiday. In the morning, I was fine. By evening, I couldn’t swallow anything. Even gulping was a problem. My throat was a golf ball and Rory McIlroy was trying to chip it out of bunker. Every swallow was painful.

By morning I was checking local hospitals and rules for getting treatment abroad. By lunchtime, I was in the A&E department of Lille University hospital. By 2pm I’d been attacked by a scalpel wielding doctor. By 3 pm I was on my second IV drip. By 4pm I was back in the hotel and feeling a lot better. Drugs work. Bladed assaults work. Merci, French healthcare!

Saying that, I was prescribed steroids and antibiotics. When Mrs TwinBikeChild went to the pharmacy, the pharmacist asked her if I was the size of an elephant.

“More like a giraffe with a big nose,” she said.

“In that case, I can’t give him these drugs. If he takes these doses, he won’t sleep for a month. He can have half.”

I think I must be the first person to have had a drug intervention before taking the drugs to become addicted!

Even with the reduced dose, I was still awake for three days, and had enough steroids to star in a Marvel movie. And I had to take them until a few days before the Edinburgh marathon.

With the infection, the emergency room trip and a week long recovery, I wasn’t going to start the marathon just three days later. So, for this year, my report is a simple one: woke up, stayed in Glasgow, feet up.