Weekend was compromised by my sore throat. Which, incidentally, I just only realised, started when the pollution turned really bad last week, and having taught on both Thursdays and Fridays obviously affected my ability to withstand the onslaught of air-borne pollutants. On Saturday I roamed around a bit with J, then splashed around in the pool with him in the afternoon. O was engrossed with his various books and origami things and did not care to join us. I was too bogged down by the sore throat to nag him into getting his arse out of his room. But he's been doing some interesting, albeit indoor, stuff, such as copying out and reciting Edgar Allan Poe's poem The Raven and seeming genuinely excited about it.

Was supposed to have a friend and his family over for a fest of crab that evening, but at the last minute she said only she could come, so I felt bad, as I assumed that her husband and child must have had better things to do but she felt she had to come anyway cos she had promised. So I called her, somewhat stupidly and inarticulatley, to say "Oh, hello. Got your message. As your husband and daughter couldn't come, perhaps you shouldn't come either". No. I'm not exaggerating. that's pretty much verbatim. Another reason I hesitated about having her over on her own is that we had planned to go out for a few drinks after dinner. But with my sore throat, and the race that I have to do on Sunday morning, it was unlikely that I could have more than one drink with her. I felt a bit bad but I hope she is a better person than me and won't think I was being crass and crazy.

Anyhow, Sunday's race. It's the annual "Ladies, lads and lassies" fun run, a 3.5km loop around the peak. I felt like crap the night before, tired and premenstrually bloated. I didn't sleep well and dreamt that I'd gotten lost in some historic relic in Macau and couldn't find my way back to the hotel room to get my running shoes for the race. I started panicking about the prospects of having to run in my pink patent leather strappy three-inch heels. I thought how disappointed J would be, if I'd miss running his first ever race with him. Predictably, I woke up at that point. The clock says 6:30.

I am very proud of my six year old, as he ran a good time of 23 and a bit minutes and came 4th in his category. He could easily have passed the kid ten seconds ahead of him, who came 3rd, if not for the fact that I kept telling him to "TAKE IT EASY! SAVE YOUR SPRINT FOR THE END!" Only that I couldn't quite remember where the end was, and when he sprinted on cue it was already at the finish line.

The only words I could think of to describe the experience, is "super cool", which admittedly is a bit juvenille and lacks depth etc., but are also the most appropriate words for the feelings I have for my child, as he crossed the line, and neatly summarises how proud I am of him.