Last week the teacher handed over two unrecognisable Mud Men from a school playground boasting dozens of neat pigtailed scholars with leather satchels (okay, I exaggerate: it is after all a state primary).

It was clear my sons had spent their day breakdancing through sludge – a considerable feat considering that not only is breakdancing tricky, but finding so much soft mud in the February permafrost must have been an even a greater challenge.

Personally, although grateful not to be ensconced in Russian snowdrifts or braving Bulgarian blizzards, I’m finding it difficult to venture outside.

It is without question too cold to cycle because however well wrapped up, the wind whistles through my layers as if I’ve mistakenly chosen the fabric used for the Emperor’s New Clothes.

I do, however, need to pound some pavements because, like a fool, on the first of April I will be running the Reading half-marathon.

The registration dropped into my inbox as a surprise gift from The Partner-in-Crime. Yes, I know other people get chocolates and flowers, but tomorrow is a golden opportunity for him to redeem himself: I just hope I’m not expected to remove my thermal vest.

With six weeks to go, I have been braving the arctic air, kitted out in so many layers it’s touch-and-go whether I’ll be able to squeeze through the front door to reach the roadside.

But apart from the cold, and the running, I love these excursions into the cool countryside which give my thoughts the chance to ramble.

I often write this column on the run. Not while I’m actually running, of course, as it’s hard to keep the paper steady but as soon as I get back.

My running route takes me through six villages. That’s why I chose it: I sound like an Ethiopian distance athlete while in truth the villages are pressed so close together that even a toddler could leap from his buggy and traverse three before his mother had a chance to get a bobble hat on his head.

Reading is the place I did my first ever half-marathon, in that dim and distant pre-children past, and where I was scarred for life by an eight foot fluffy banana.

Young and foolish, I assumed that a giant yellow fruit with two buckets of loose change jingling for charity would be easy to beat.

But he was not to be trifled with and hot-footed past me like Bananaman at the very first hill.

This time, however, I’ll be prepared for humiliation at the hands of a root vegetable.

In fact I’m thinking of getting my own enormous turnip suit.

And although I might get some funny looks during training, I’ll be beautifully insulated from the cold and will be sure of a bowl of warming soup at the finish line.