An early start this morning took me to the start line of the just ten miles. Parking space found, a short walk to the event village, toilet queue negotiated; I saw the marathon runners on their way. Elites, serious runners and fancy dressed fun runners set off at a pace down the hill. Down the hill. The hill that would be climbed 26 miles later. Mr A was there, and back in just 3 hours 43. He’s a fast runner. I may have the stamina to keep on running, but I’m not fast.

Then it was the turn of the just ten milers. It’s cold hanging about at the start of a run. There’s the opportunity to leave old clothes for charity. A trailer full of items abandoned by the marathon runners had already been collected. I said goodbye to the redundant cardigan that had witnessed life from the back of my office chair.

Our turn came to run down the hill and into the city. Over the cobbles, less treacherous than in last year’s rain. Under the city walls, past the minster, through the country villages. Encouraged all the way by spectators and fellow runners, my lack of serious training was not a big issue.  Lots of banter made me pleased to have given my Trump t-shirt another airing. Less than 2 hours later, it was my turn to climb the hill to the home strait. Marathon runners were already sprinting towards the finish, pulling the ten milers in their wake.

So that’s one of the ten mile runs done. Just two short weeks to go to the next one. The undulating Lake District run. The distance may not be an issue, but this granny will be challenged by the hills.

At the park run on Saturday, I heard cheers of ‘go girl’ directed at a 75 year old completing her 100^th run. In the circumstances the language was probably well placed. The ‘girl’ in question went on to achieve a personal best. If I’m still runing 5k at 75 then any shouts of encouragement will do.

It reminded me of the outrage caused by Sir Roger Gale MP when he described mature working women as ‘the girls in my office’. I had much debate with friends as to whether this could ever be taken as flattery and compliment.

As an accountancy student in the early 1980’s there would be exercises set which would, we were told, ‘sort the men from the boys’. A nod of ‘oh sorry girls’ would acknowledge the presence of the female students in the room.

Does the language matter? To my mind it does. It is language representative of a paternalistic culture, keeping the girls in their place.

Last week I spent an evening at the cinema watching an interview with Margaret Atwood. Solid, steely and lovely; she is a prophet for the times in which we live, a wise woman. I can’t imagine anyone describing this strong woman as a girl.

I’m happy to enjoy an occasional ‘girls’ night out’, the equivalent of a ‘night out with the boys’. But on the whole, I aspire to become a wise old woman with the wow factor (definitely not a little old lady, lol). I’d like to be a role model worthy of my granddaughters. At the moment they are both beautiful little girls. My hope is to see them grow into intelligent and hard working women, following in the footsteps of their mother and their aunties.