I’m running the London Marathon for Save the Children.

Yes, the full 26.2 miles (42km).

Yes, voluntarily.

Yes, I’ll be questioning my life choices somewhere around mile 14.

But here’s the thing.

The world is loud, chaotic and permanently “busy” — yet some things are still painfully simple: children shouldn’t have to run from hunger, conflict, climate disaster, or the bad luck of being born in the wrong place. They should be running towards school, safety, healthcare — and a future that isn’t stacked against them before they’ve even started.

That’s why I’m backing Save the Children. They do the unglamorous, get-on-with-it work: clean water, education, emergency aid, long-term support.

Not slogans. Not soundbites.

Not a sad violin and a perfectly timed hashtag. Proper, practical impact — the kind that keeps showing up after everyone else has moved on.

And the marathon? It’s my way of turning “someone should do something” into “fine — I’ll do something that involves chafing, weather, and a deeply personal relationship with electrolytes.”

A marathon is essentially a long, public negotiation with your own body:

Miles 1–6: “Look at me. Effortless. Gazelle energy.”

Miles 7–13: “This is fine. I could do another one.” (Lies.)

Mile 14: “Ah. Here we are. The Consequences Department.”

Miles 15–20: “If anyone needs me, I’ll be mentally relocating to a sofa.”

Miles 21–26.2: “Hello darkness, my old friend… also, where are the nearest knees?”

But every step has a point. Because every pound raised becomes something real: meals, medicine, shelter, protection, support — the boring-but-brilliant stuff that changes a child’s day, then their month, then their whole future.

So I’ll run. Probably in the rain (it’s London; we don’t do ‘conditions’, we do ‘character building’). Past cheering strangers. Powered by gels that taste like melted fruit pastilles and misplaced optimism. With legs that will file a complaint, appeal the decision, and ask to speak to a manager.

And I’ll keep going because this discomfort is voluntary. For too many children, the hard part isn’t a choice — it’s just life.

If you can donate — bingo. Thank you. You’re turning my miles into meaningful, practical help.

If you can’t — that’s completely fine. Share this, cheer loudly, send a message, or generally make a nuisance of yourself in my direction on the day. Support comes in many forms, and it all counts.

Either way, you’re part of the story.

Let’s turn 26.2 miles of voluntary suffering into something that genuinely matters.