The tantalising waft of baguettes from la boulangerie.

The rich aroma of le café brewing in, erm, le café.

The heady vim of Eau de Joggeur permeating les Tuileries as a blister of lycra-clad buffoons lollop along la Seine.

That’s right. Le weekend after Pâques heralds the 36 Marathon de Paris, to which, in a moment of madness some months ago, I enlisted. Cold, dark months of tedious abstinence ensued (with but one or two, ahem, brief hiatuses), accompanied by semi-regular trundles around the mean streets of North London. Lo, in just over 2 weeks, the aforementioned Eau de Joggeur will be masking the faint but pervasive smell of fear (simmer down, not in a Radcliffian sense) as I join one or two others attempting the 42.195km around Paris.

Long-distance running is an ability which may come naturally to some, however it is one that most certainly eludes me. I require every incentive to haul my unfit-for-purpose carcass around the course (tracing paper has better shock absorbing qualities than the cartilage in my knees), thus I would humbly request your financial support, however large or small, in emotionally blackmailing me to the finishing line.

Most importantly, your sponsorship goes straight to Macmillan Cancer Support, for whom I shall be “running”. Hopefully you will already be familiar with their work, but if not, they provide invaluable practical, medical and financial support for cancer patients and their families. Please visit their website here:  http://www.macmillan.org.uk/Home.aspx.