🦇 Friday: Fancy Dress, Fundraising & Pumpkin Regret
Bideford races are a must for Paula and me. The running club hosts three each year—a 10K, a 10 miler, and a Half Marathon—and since it’s within an hour of Bude, Wilko gets the weekend off. Lucky van.
But this wasn’t just race weekend—it was Halloween fundraising madness. One pub, three bands, and a tsunami of raffle tickets. The Brendon Arms went full spooky: bar staff in costume, “Halloweener dogs,” and cocktails that looked like they’d been brewed in a cauldron. A percentage of profits went to our charity. Fan-bloody-tastic.
I rocked up in my SENSE clobber, face painted like I’d headbutted a horror movie. Sadly, I wasn’t allowed to enter the fancy dress comp—Paula banned me. Gutted. Meanwhile, she and Roxy went as pumpkins. Roxy, being a trendy 29-ish singleton, was thrilled to be dressed like a vegetable in a pub full of potential suitors. Sucks to be you, Roxy.
The music was top-notch:
- Beach Hutz (Dave & Nigel)
- Seren Dreams (Kate & Nigel)
- Lily (also backed by Nigel—who must now have fingers made of titanium)
We raised £345 and had a blast. I did the raffle solo while the girls held court at the table, occasionally rising to greet friends like raffle royalty. I didn’t mind—armed with a pint, a bucket, and a mission to extract cash from punters, I was in my element.
Halloween Harmony doing there Night of entertainment
🏃♀️ Saturday: Parkrun Pumpkins & Military Moves
Back to our old house for one last sleep before moving day. Paula had Parkrun (obviously), and somehow roped Roxy into her first ever. Roxy’s weekend just kept getting better.
Paula picked up the new house keys en route, and the Parkrun was completed with minimal drama—except for Roxy’s legs, which were now officially protesting. I arrived with my workmate Rob (yes, another one) and a van full of ambition. Three trips later, backs broken, and Rob doing 90% of the lifting, we’d shifted two years of accumulated chaos into the new house.
Paula took command like a military general. Roxy and Kai followed orders, placing items in locations we’ll never find again. My man cave? Now a storage bunker. This will not do.
The bedroom was functional—bed made, floor visible. We thanked the troops, ordered Chinese (my pre-race nutrition of champions), and collapsed into sleep.
🏃♂️ Sunday: Race Day, Random Furniture & Cat Herding
Woke up in our new home. No TV bracket. No idea where it went. Not me. Definitely not me.
We headed to Bideford for the race and to collect a free wardrobe (my favourite price). The bloke giving it away was marshalling the race. Small world. Big furniture.
Arrived at 9:50am for a 10:30 start. Still had to grab our free race tops, hunt for safety pins, ditch our hoodies, and Paula had to visit the loo multiple times. The ladies’ queue was longer than the race itself.
We lined up with the elites, then sensibly shuffled back to the “everyone else” section. I forgot to start my watch. Bugger. Got it going eventually—Strava will never forgive me.
We passed Elodie and Roxy, high-fived Elodie as she rang her bell like a one-woman cheer squad. Paula, allegedly taking it easy due to a cold, vanished like a gazelle on Red Bull.
Three hills later, my thighs were screaming like they’d been forced into a squat-off with The Rock. Hit 5K in 27-ish minutes. Happy days. Then came the coastal path, a slight incline, and my legs staged a mutiny. Time for a gel and a walk.
The Tarka Trail saved me. Flat, familiar, and just what I needed. At mile 7, I gelled again and found my mojo. Passed a few walkers, checked they were okay, and ended up running with a woman whose kitchen renovation was giving her more grief than the race. We chatted, paced each other, and crossed the line together (well, she was just behind me). 1:34 finish. Boom.
She told her mates I’d saved her. I’ll take that. This is why we run.
🧥 Post-Race: Wetherspoons, Wardrobes & Cat Herding
Post-race feast at Wetherspoons: hot choc, sausage, bacon, eggs, chips—the full works. Then off to find the marshal with the wardrobe.
Three heavy sections, post-race legs, bad back. Got it in the van. Back home, just Paula and me to unload. No help from the marshal. Cheers, mate.
Paula was thrilled with her new storage. I might sneak a jacket in if I’m lucky.
Roxy wanted our old dining table, so off we went again. Paula asked me to bin Roxy’s old metal one at work. This day was ageing me rapidly.
At Roxy’s, the table wouldn’t fit through the door. Cue leg removal and cat containment. Elodie tried her best—shouting at cats like they were naughty toddlers. It worked. Sort of.
Back home, final unit unloaded. Done by 6pm. Showered in my new bathroom (basic but functional). Paula luxuriated in her en suite—big enough to swing two cats and sit down mid-shower.
We collapsed in the conservatory, bubbles in hand, curry in the oven, race stats on the brain. What a weekend. I feel a cold brewing. Still no sign of the TV bracket. Damn.
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