Struggling to reach second-time euphoria

So, I'm just 13 days away from my second 1/2 marathon outing in six months. I'm not afraid to admit that I'm more scared than the first time around: firstly because I haven't managed to raise anywhere near as much money for Penny Brohn Cancer Care (total is at £150 at the moment, which doesn't even cover my required donation) thus far, and I want to get a faster race time - which means I need to push harder to make my body stronger.

I've been keeping up a regular running/gym pattern (around 6/7 hours of fitness a week) since I was basking in the self-congratulatory sense of achievement when brandishing my first 1/2 marathon medal in September 2011. I've been increasing the intensity/duration of my runs over the last few weeks, and adding more resistance training in the gym to strengthen my upper body. I know I'm fit, if not fitter than in the lead up to the Bristol 1/2, but for some reason, I can't quite strike the same note of utter dedication - can't quite loose my body's gripes in the total mind-over-matter mentality. Perhaps, like with everything in life: your first time is always the most special or memorable. It's impossible to recreate that moment of euphoria.

I know I can try harder with fundraising, but I needed an extra push to remind me why I'm putting myself through this again. For a start, to see my mum positively brimming and buzzing with enthusiasm after her three day residential course at the Penny Brohn Centre in Pill helped me to understand the ethos of the charity and gave me a greater insight into their work with cancer sufferers. Penny Brohn's ethos is to help cancer suffers live with cancer - 'live' being the operative word. The NHS or 'sausage factory', as my mum and her best friend (who has had both breasts removed due to cancer) call it, remove the life-eating cells, but Penny Brohn Cancer Care enable cancer sufferers and their families deal with life once they've been spat out of that machine - lost, confused and emotionally weak.

The number of caner sufferers is predicted to steeply increase and although more efficient treatments and procedures are also increasing- there needs to be more of a support network to make sure cancer sufferers can readjust to life after invasive surgery. The Penny Brohn method has been practiced here for thirty years, and though the charity was founded in Bristol - the team are currently setting up outreach centres, which will meet the needs of patients around the country more directly.

I'm so glad I took up the offer to go along to a special 'Runners Day' at the Penny Brohn Centre (6 miles out of Bristol) on Saturday - an opportunity to meet other runners raising money for Penny Brohn, tour the facilities at the centre, be given expert tips from a physio, a nutritionist, and training expert and also use the day as the perfect opportunity to try out a new running route that encompassed 12.34 miles along the estuary between Pill and Leigh Woods.

I set off in the sunshine, with iPod tuned to a new training playlist, with just a roughly written set of directions in the pocket of my Fred Perry tennis shorts, hoping that the weather would be kind to me. It was a beautifully warm day, and I was fired up - excited about the new route and having a meaningful interval to look forward to. I made it to the centre in 48 minutes, covering just over 6 miles.

As per usual, I strode in looking like a punched beatroot, and was greeted by Andrew, the fundraising manager - who had been at the finish line at the Bristol 1/2 marathon, and was probably not surprised to see me in such a state, as I'd been in the same condition then too. The centre is part Georgian mansion, complete with cedar trees lining the drive and sandy stone walls glowing warmly in the early spring sunshine. There are additional wings surrounding the old chassie, tastefully and complementarily fitting in, with ornate but unpretentious landscaped gardens dotted around the expansive grounds.

We were offered all sorts of holier-than-holy ethical teas with no less than three milk-but-not-milk alternatives to cows stuff. Impressed - they take nutrition very seriously, as was represented in the gluten free/wheat free mango and pecan squares smuggly waiting to be consumed. Yumm, probably tastier (and much less calorific) as a ten kilos of butter-type recipe from Nigella. I opted for two glasses of water to cool myself down a bit, followed by a Chai with Organic Manuka honey and rice milk.

Even though I was the only one who looked the part of the dedicated runner - I was the novice of the group. The trainer who talked us through race-day kit and trainers had done about 6 full marathons, 12 1/2 marathons and countless ridiculous rough-challenges for those runners who have to have pain as their companion at all times. The other runners where all either seasoned 1/2 marathon runners or in training for the London Marathon this year. I was slightly in awe... never been much of a running geek, but being in a room full of pros for the first time made me excited about running again - I wanted to learn about their experiences and how they get through the runners 'wall'. (Which I think is the technical term for my lack-luster.)

After a demo by a physio on how injuries are picked up from dodgy running technique, and how to prevent this, we then talked carbs, sports drinks (which I detest and will not be adding to my routine) and pre/post race day eating plans. I learned a few surprising facts about energy expenditure and the importance of eating protein to rebuild muscle after training. Aside from that, we discussed trainers, kit and looked at a whole bunch of scarily expensive 'tights' which apartently help circulation and support the flabby bits to decrease wobble and make you more aerodynamic... I will not be convinced to part with £62 for a pair of glorified leggings. No thanks, I'll stick to my hotch-potch approach to attire and avoid cotton, which I totally agree is the runners worst enemy when it comes to sweat-entrapment.

I gulped down an extra half of too-good-to-be-real cake and a tour of the centre commenced with Andrew taking us top to bottom incorporating treatment rooms for reiki, massage and contemplation, an art room, nutritional demo kitchen and group-therapy rooms. The art room is apparently the least used room in the centre which I found surprising and a great shame to see all the new resources sitting dormant in a light-filled space facing the formal gardens.

I thought the centre felt like a luxury spa crossed with a hippy commune - minus the hippyish pretensions/procrastinations and not a whiff of incense to be made drowsy by. Oatmeal carpets, warm oaty-coloured walls, calming lighting, floods of light through generous windows, and quiet aside from the faint sound of the water features outside: the Penny Brohn Centre would make anyone feel instantly at home.

The centre used to be £900 per resident for a three day retreat, but the team recently decided to loose the exclusivity tag, making it is free to anyone suffering or in recovery from cancer. Before I set off, Andrew and the runners discussed why more people don't know about Penny Brohn - there are hundreds of cancer charities, but none of them take the same approach to non-invasive therapy: bolstering the body by teaching sufferers the importance of using a strong immune system to fight again the alien cancer cells attacking their bodies.

I hope that the emergence of more Penny Brohn Centres around the country will create awareness and drum up more support from independent donators, corporate sponsors and government agencies. In the meantime, I'll keep trying to spread their good work - I've seen such a positive change in my mum's attitude to life after cancer, she's still brimming from her time at the centre over a month ago, and is looking forward to returning again soon for a week's retreat - where I know she'll try and get that art room full of people creating pieces of work that address their worries and release some negativity and apprehensions.

Back out in the sun, a little after 2pm, I hit the tow-path, following the meandering estuary back under the suspension bridge and back up to Clifton - clocking 6.34 miles in 50 minutes - head up, powering through, hitting my stride. Nothing like a dose of inspiration to fuel one's personal motivation.

Please donate to Penny Brohn Cancer Care and support my marathon effort here: http://www.justgiving.com/Holly-Wicks0

Nights at The Cube

My education in indie cinema has reached a new level of heightened obscurity.

I was getting delightfully accustomed to the eclectic and offbeat offerings at The Watershed, then I strayed deeper into the indie abyss and stumbled across The Cube Cinema, just off Kings Square, Stokes Croft. The Cube is so off-kilter that it makes The Watershed feel like the director's luxury suite at Cinema De Lux. The location alone should have signaled the alternative nature of this venue (it's wedged between a couple of intimidating tower blocks, just behind a rather attractive Georgian facade.) But with the tempting invitation to screen a film for free on an ample cinema screen in a city of diversity - I eagerly crossed the threshold with my short documentary, A Prickly Relationship in hand ready to join the list in the Bluescreen pot-luck filmathon.

I have screened films from my repertoire on every successive Bluescreen night since - amounting to four very different experiences. Like karaoke: open film nights must be taken with open expectations: some numbers make you want to pull your eyes out, whereas others can trigger fits of sniggers or squeals of joy. Due to the mixture of amateur and professional filmmakers in attendance - you're always sat amongst seriously bonkers enthusiasts or seriously pretentious auteurs (of the jaded or aloof variety) and a few semi-grounded filmmakers like me. There is of course also a hinterland of the average/clever/arty/jokey/weird/exploitative persuasion.

You are encouraged to introduce your film, which is a great chance to scope out the competition and gain an insight into their mental stability. There are always a few 'technical hitches' along the way, and the chap who hosts the night always always misreads names and film titles (a mixed misfortune of low-lighting and bad handwriting from entrants) - which adds to the comic absurdity of the event.

If your film is swallowed by the DVD machine or (in one case so far) you're subjected to two uber-boring 10 minute photo-montages because the DVD menu is on a loop and the technician can't be bothered to stop it/doesn't realise, I have learnt that you must sit still, breath long and hard and let it wash over you.

Last week's screening was extra entertaining as my ex-housemate Jamie's boyfriend, Fred came along. He's quite opinionated, and doesn't especially like the Cube as it is (bit low-brow for him), but he'd agreed to come as Jamie's music video was on the bill. But Jamie had made a grave mistake - arriving late. That means your film will be last on the bill, which basically means that not many people will see it, as the population decreases in the auditorium depending on how good/bad it starts and how long the films go on for (1am being the current record finish for Bluescreen's 10th year anniversary screening!).

I giggled in hysteric glee as Fred squirmed and huffed his way through the first two films on the bill: one - the double bill skateboarding photo montage mentioned earlier, two - a hideously cringy drama which included an angry psycho keeping a young man hostage then wrestling him on the floor for what felt like an eternity. Uh?!

Fred needs to learn to take the rough with the smooth if he's to become a Bluescreen vet.

By far the most amusing offering thus far comes in the shape of a mockumentary series titled 'Brenda'. I've been lucky enough to catch every episode (4), and have to say that although initially it confused me and left me cold - the story has evolved and I confess that I've become hooked to this bizarre micro-soap-op about a straight man who pretends to be a tranny in an attempt to capture the affection of his best friend who happens to be a lesbian.

I have to admit that I didn't realise 'Benda' was a mockumentary during the first episode - I thought it was just a bunch of odd-bods from Stokes Croft playing with a camera. But, as the story has developed, I think it's actually quite clever and a little bit funny. Mainly because the guy playing Brenda is gargantuan - about 7ft and the least attractive tranny I've even seen. So, you can imagine the shrieks and stomach-clutching that occurred when 'Brenda's' two veg made a three-second appearance in one scene. Just about every inch of Brenda has been laid-bare for all to see now, so what can possibly happen next?

A woman who's film was rejected/spat out of the machine about mid-way through the line-up got in such a huff with the recording device she was playing with in her lap (to record the sound of her own film being played? Or researching the competition? Odd any way) that she shouted quite audibly, "Stop turning yourself on!", (directed at her machine I presume), which promoted a ripple of giggles across the audience... and wether out of embarrassment or resentment, she and her companion abruptly left.

The interval is always a welcome chance to air concerns about the sanity of the congregation and recall the films made by the inconspicuous-geniuses hidden amongst us. Also the time for everyone who forgot they had a drink beside their feet to knock over said drink and spend an additional £2 on a replacement.

The best films always seem to proceed the break, though maybe that's just because you know there's light at the end of the cube-shaped-tunnel. Audience figures have ranged between 30 and 60, though as I said, past the 11pm home-time call for week-day workers, numbers dwindle considerably. The die-hards stay till the very end - (yes I can lay claim to being one of those ridiculous creatures).

Cube nights - are film nights subtlety vailing vaguely organised chaos, but enjoyable if you don't go with any preconceived expectations. Where else can you show a film for free, watch a hotch-potch, occasionally exceptional array of moving images crafted by regional talent? Get thy self down to The Cube and experience Bluescreen for yourself - just don't take your caravan-fetish montage and expect a genuine round of applause. In fact, I might suggest a ban for montages of any description.

Big Fat Nightmare Gypsy Christmas

I caught up with a friend a few weeks ago for a coffee and as we hadn't seen each other in a while - we backtracked to how we'd both spent Christmas.

Mine was fun, relaxed and boozy - everything the festive season should be. Sam's was utter chaos and if I'd have had to face the same situation... well - I don't think I'd have made it through to see the New Year.

Sam is a duty manager at a hotel on the outskirts of Bristol. She'd been landed with a hefty Christmas day shift: the only member of staff on duty all day, she had around 40 residents to look after until the night staff took over at 11pm.

40 residents might have been daunting enough if something went wrong and you had no backup. But my jaw dropped when Sam unravelled her story of the day from hell - when she realised half the residents were Irish gypsies, who had managed to smuggle in a rabble of friends to stay and party in their rooms.

They were drunk by 10 am in the morning. Stealing things and causing trouble in the corridors by midday. Sam had to try and control them, as well as assuring the other residents that she'd evict them before dark. The gypsies would not adhere to her pleas for them to leave the building, so she called the police. She didn't want to - worrying that it would upset the local bobbies special day. She couldn't call her boss as she was equally anxious about spoiling his special day with the family. She was well and truly alone in her fight to restore peace at the hotel.

Sam knew she had every right to evict them - the incriminating footage was safely stored on CCTV, but the sheer power in their numbers and audacious behaviour rendered her rather useless. The gypsies were teasing her, picking her up, ignoring every remonstration.

Sam called the police. She hoped the theft element of their behaviour would be enough alone for them to help her. Two officers arrived. They were not very helpful. Sam stated her case, detailing all the offenses. They remained fairly nonchalant, uncommitted.

It wasn't until one of the gypsies made a racist comment to the black officer, that they stirred into gear and began evicting the gypsies and all their messy entourage.

As if that wasn't enough, Sam then had to stay on an extra hour or so to explain the situation to the night staff and get everything settled and tidied to resume service.

The only thing that saved Sam from breakdown was the words of commendation from the non-gypsy residents who witnessed some of the ordeal and saluted her brave fight to regain power.

Bravo Sam!