In which there are too many breast puns to choose from

Those of you who follow these columns (hi, Mum!) will remember that I few months ago I wrote about my training for The MoonWalk - not a mass Michael Jackson tribute, but a half marathon walked in the middle of the night, in a nattily decorated bra. Well, I'm doing it! Literally right now! I mean, not literally literally, but if you could just suspend belief and pretend I'm writing on a small typewriter strapped to my bumbag. I'll concede to a small spoiler and let you know now that I cross the finish line alive, just so you can enjoy the next 400 words without worrying.

11am. I have put whey protein powder in my morning porridge. I am going to walk like a PRO.

11.02am. Do professional walkers exist? Is that a thing?

12.30pm. I have purchased every energy bar and blister product in North London. There's a chance I might be using charity as an excuse for consumerism.

2pm. My walking pal Lizzie and I are finishing off our bras. We have opted for a Worthing-inspired seascape, with waves, boats and a blue ribbon 'seaweed ' trim. In a fit of resourcefulness (and lack of fabric paint), I've used blue eyeshadow to create a dappled sky effect.

8.40pm. We are in a giant tent full of pink. It seems everyone got another memo we didn't. There are pink trousers, pink hoods and pink anoraks everywhere. A band on the stage are playing 50s rock 'n' roll covers, and women are applying temporary glitter tattoos to any available flesh. It's Tit Glastonbury. In a way, I feel I may enjoy this MORE than Glastonbury.

9pm. We have devised MoonWalk Bingo! We get points for spotting the following: a celeb, a lady weeing in the street, an unintentional nipple. If Anneka Rice has a pee behind the tree does a jiggly shake-and-wait, we might win the jackpot.

12.00am. And we're off! We've started! Last weekend's blister is already rubbing, but it's no match for my determination and excessive Nurofen supply.

12.15am. Is it too early to crack open the Percy Pigs?

12.58am. 3 miles! We are still in Hyde Park in the dark, so in the absence of other entertainment I am drawing on my strongest talent - whistling. I whistle my way through In The Mood, to get Lizzie in the mood. I am a one-woman big band. I think she appreciates it. She doesn't hit me, anyway.

1.12am. We are playing 'would you rather?' Every option I can think of involves romantic shenanigans with an overweight politician. The game dies quickly.

1.30am. 5 miles! Various onlookers and cheerers-on are positioned along the route, shouting motivating things and waving as we pass by in our bras. Liz and I are now playing a game called 'Supporter or pervert?'

1.35am. A Twitter follower has helpfully pointed out to me that it is possible to be both.

2.32am. 7 miles! We are crossing London Bridge. A 43 bus is going past. If we just hopped on it, we could be at the end of my street in half an hour. Who's going to check?

3.49am. 11 miles! I have reverted to earlier tactics and am whistling the whole of Bohemian Rhapsody. By the time I get to the Galileo Galileos Liz is threatening to slap me, but I'm too committed to stop. 

4.10am. 12 miles! On with the foil blanket. I always thought a foil blanket would make me feel supremely athletic. It doesn't. It makes me feel like a slutty burrito.

4.20am. We've done it! We've ruddy done it! My hips are screaming. I cannot feel my feet. I will NEVER walk anywhere again.

4.27am. I am running for a cab. Running.