Lisbon marathon, 20 miles in, 6 more miles to the finish line, and bang. I have no legs.

I did what is romantically referred to as 'bonking'.

I finished the race but I really, really didn't want to. Walking 10 km in absolute agony is as physically painful on the body as it is crushingly demoralising for the ol' ego. The finest moment of my day was crying into my cheese sandwich at the Praça do Comércio, lovingly prepared and brought to me by the beautiful and ever-supportive LB. It was all rather far removed from the image of triumphalism I was projecting for myself as I approached the start line some four and a half hours earlier. In the end I was happy to have made it to the finish line. Perhaps it was the sobering effect of the arduous, crippling walk, but I was ready to confess that my whole tragic scenario was entirely befitting of the standard of my preparation for the race. Which, needless to say, hadn't gone particularly well. I remain somewhat appauled that my set-backs in preparation did absolutely nothing to dispel any image I had of myself powering down the home straight, spring-chicken-esque, with fuel and energy to spare, soaking up the adulations of the crowd; and so pay for my foolishness I most certainly did. This, sadly, just seems to be my way.

Three days later and I'm back at PwC, in one of the board rooms on the ninth floor overlooking the Thames, listening intently to the wise, wise words of Anne Blackie. The sheer irony of it all weighing down upon me as I nodded meaningfully along to an entire hour long presentation exacting the virtues and the significance of preparation.