The Olympic legacy – you want it? Earn it.

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We’ve had a  good Olympics, Britain, haven’t we?

For someone who has very little sporting ability (aside from a pretty mean ‘swagger’ at the weekly Clubbercise class), I’ve been gripped by the talents of Laura Trott, Jade Jones, Helen Glover (well she is from Cornwall), Heather Stanning, Becky James and Amy Tinkler, to name but a few. Yep, go us women! Ok, well done to the men too!

Obvs I was ‘in to’ London 2012 – from the Olympic Torch winding its way along Cornish roads to that opening ceremony, I just remember feeling so proud. In the games makers, in the athletes, in the crowds who cheered everyone on. And then we had the Paralympics too and people who had overcome adversity put us all to shame by being generally bloody amazing. Times were good.

Of course, the legacy from 2012 was about encouraging people to get into sport and becoming Olympians of the future. Would love to comment on whether or not this worked, but my focus since London was to have a baby and, having had said baby in 2014, wallow in self pity over what I used to do with my spare time. (Have just realised that Jessica Ennis-Hill not only had a baby in the same time, but also went on to win a silver at the Heptathlon last weekend. Whatevs…)

So, what do we take from Rio 2016? Having watched many an exhausted athlete interviewed on the finish line as the reality of their medal win sinks in, the overwhelming message has been just how hard they worked for it. Yes, they are supported by trainers and a host of people behind the scenes, but that didn’t all just magically appear on the proclamation of ‘I’m going to be an Olympian’.

Today, more than ever, we hear the positive messages on the theme of being able to do anything you put your mind to. Facebook and Instagram threads are awash with life affirming pictures with positive phrases (like the one in this post that took me five minutes to put together. I have no idea who Beverly Sills is, or if she actually said what she said. But I like it.) Today, more than ever, we can discover what we want to do, find out how to do it – and be supported by a wealth of positivity to give us that gentle nudge in the right direction.

So, let’s dig out our vision boards, feel the fear and do it anyway, get off our arses and do what we say we’re going to do. Wanting it is part of the battle, but it’s the preparation, the action, the bloody-minded dedication, that turns the dream into a reality.

 

 

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What’s your favourite position?

We all have a preferred position… Mine has to be a sort of semi reclining in the right corner of the sofa – the exact spot outlined by an indentation of my arse. Usually I’m joined by the dog who has somehow managed to contort herself in such a way that leaves me jostling for space.

How about you? Perhaps you’re a fan of a beanbag? Hunched over a kitchen table? Or, maybe an under-the-covers-with-a-tablet?

Today I thought I’d write about my favourite pastime, something that is fairly satisfying and has always been there for me when I needed it. Yes – television. Oh, you thought I was talking about sex?! As if…

Taking stock of life as a relatively newly-single gal about town on the sofa, I realise that I have allowed my brain to atrophy – fed on a diet of dramas, comedies, soaps, documentaries, reality TV, talkshows… (I could go on, but you get the idea). Most nights involved flopping down in front of the box and remaining there for most of the evening. Somewhere after the age of about 25 (let’s not share how long ago that was…) I began the process of prematurely turning into an 80-year old who schedules phone calls around her soaps (which, don’t get me wrong, you have totally earned the right to do at 80). Other than work, or my beautiful gorgeous son and almost equally gorgeous dog, TV is the only thing I can talk about with any sort of confidence. Which is really frickin’ sad.

(In my defence though, it does rain a shit load in Cornwall, and cold, wet and dark evenings do lend themselves to a night in front of the box and reaffirming a commitment to the sofa arse indent.)

So, as I glossed over earlier (more to follow on that, but it’s a whole other post. Heck, it’s a whole other blog…), I am now single. Almost out the other side of a painful divorce (a cliché but is there a better adjective?), it’s time to work out what’s next. And struck with the realisation that there is much more to life and how precious it is, I’m going to have to curb the urge to watch all the must-see shows and start feeding my brain again.

There will be a new grand plan (more on that another time). There will be a television. But the new sofa will remain indent-free.