The weekend didn't start well.

My regular Saturday morning run was hampered by my running pants deciding that sitting neatly around my waist was far too conservative and conformist for their liking, so they eschewed this idea in favour of sliding in a Southerly direction and attempting to reveal more than I was comfortable in revealing on a Saturday morning in broad daylight. Their behaviour wasn't entirely unprompted. As some winters bring "the wrong kind of snow" to scupper any thoughts of travelling by train, I had worn "the wrong kind of knickers" and scuppered any thoughts of running. The kind which are smooth and silky to touch, shrugging off any other fabric with which they may come into contact.

Additionally, I'd decided to try out my new running "pack". Normally, I wear my neoprene "sporran" (as I call it), a little bum bag which hugs my hips and holds on to my phone, keys, jelly babies and "emergency" fiver. I now discover, through not wearing it and trying out my new armband pack, that it also held onto one other vital thing: my trousers.

After a couple of minutes of repeatedly dragging the waistband back to its customary, if rather conventional, position, I decided that enough was enough and I aborted my run. You see, when running, you need your clothing to jolly well behave. Any clothing annoyances (an itchy label, bra strap digging in) will be multiplied several-fold by sheer repetition of movement and could cause what every runner dreads: chafing.

It was not only my attire which conspired against me during Saturday's run. After three and a half years of trouble-free bouncing, my boobs decided to make their presence felt on every footfall. A tenderness and discomfort, to which I am not at all accustomed. This is extremely out of character. My boobs are normally very well behaved. They are one of the parts of my body which I don't fully detest. They are a little on the small side, but my French ex had a nice way of putting it: "ça tient dans la main" (it fits in your hand). Admittedly, he had big hands and, in his case, the big hands were reflected in *ahem* other ways. Yep, he had huge gloves. I digress. In short, my boobs are not too big for strenuous physical activity and not too small to fill clothes nicely.

I'm not sure what prompted their little tantrum yesterday, but this evening I gave them a chance to redeem themselves. I strapped them down with my most scaffold-like sports bra, grabbed my drawstring capri pants, just in case, and set off for a six miler.

They all behaved impeccably.