Around this time, in two weeks, I will have been running for just under six hours.

My day will have started at 4am to get up, have breakfast and have a final panicked pack and repack of my race vest and drop bags.

The taxi is booked for 4.45 to take me to Old Deer Park in Richmond for final registration and last minute toilet breaks.

And then I get to run for anywhere between 10 and 14 hours up and down a hilly 62 miles (or 100 kilometres) to Brighton.

I am now MASSIVELY regretting my decision to enter.

My training programme has reached the stage where I am slowly reducing my weekly mileage from around 50 per week to 20 next week.

This is where my legs get to rest up for the onslaught that is to follow.

Unfortunately, having stopped drinking alcohol, stopped playing football and not having so much running  or planning has left my mind with plenty of time to think about the multitude of ways the final days could go horribly wrong.

Runner’s tummy, my sore hip, knee pain, too much rain, too much sun, too much wind (meteorological and gastro-intestinal), not enough food, not enough water, not enough electrolytes, getting lost, falling over, bear attacks generally being in South London have all reared their ugly defeatist heads in only the last week.

I’ve read books and countless articles on positive mental attitude but it’s getting harder and harder to ignore those nagging voices.

Now I just want the next two weeks to be over so I can focus on the joys awaiting at the finish line – a massage, wine and enough food to feed an army.

Not long now but a watched taper never ends…