Olympiad

Great news! Today I received a letter from the British Olympic Committee, informing me that a space has opened up on the Olympic Worrying Team, and they want me, Barren Mare, to join them at the Winter games as a member!

I don't know why I am surprised at the accolade. I mean, I earned this. I have been training extra hard lately, really racheting up the intensity that little bit more. Well, clearly the efforts have paid off, and I'm in.

I knew I was meant for international worrying greatness from a young age. My mother is a championship fretter herself, so you might say it's in the blood. But I have that extra ability to turn a normal situation into a brow-furrowing sleepless night. As a child, I began with the simple things- would my Christmas presents include the Mandy doll that I so longed for? Would I have my colouring assignment placed up on the "Best Of" wall in Mrs Yikers' First Grade class? Would I win the spelling bee, or be picked last for the volleyball team?

By adolescence, the seeds of a worrying winner were well sown. I managed to fret my way right into the regional championships, as the judges were hugely impressed by my efforts in the "Will Ricky ever kiss me, or does he like Amy better?" episode. And all through college, the medals lined the walls, as I wrestled with (what was then) one seemingly awful decision after another.

But it was really when I went to graduate school that my Olympic potential was first realised. A number of fairly horrendous things did go on-for example, harrassment by a professor and being threatened with a shotgun whilst being evicted from my apartment by my psycho landlord. Since it seemed that bad things were really happening at last (and not just ones I dreamed up), I worried my way through each incident with considerable aplomb.

However, I didn't quite make the grade. True, I was in the running, briefly, during the divorce. And I was actually an Team alternate during my three hellish years back at university when I gambled everything on re-training and achieving a qualification that would allow me to get a "real job".

Then I slacked off. I met E., who is a medal winner himself.

We used to compete with each other once in a while, just to maintain our form, but I usually won, which he hated. We also realised that our worrying matches took up a lot of time, and though our love of the sport was strong, it also interfered with our ability to get anything done, or make any decisions. We didn't have the sponsorships to turn pro, and lacked the funding to train full time as amateurs. I began to resign myself to the idea that history would always mark me down as a contender, but not a winner.

So thank God for infertility! It's given me that extra boost I needed to achieve my dream of Gold Medalist. I know the competition is fierce, but I have a couple of months to hone my skills before we have our appointment at the Ass-Con Centre, including worrying that the appointment won't go ahead on schedule. And depending on what we find out (assuming we actually do get anything resembling an answer), I may have even more material to work with.

I won't say anymore-I wouldn't like to give too many training tips away to my rivals. But I'd like to know what I'm up against. If any of you out there have been picked to represent your country, could you let me know?