How many times can a person lose Hammersmith?

I've been neglecting my running this week - work and potential redundancy issues have reached critical mass and distracted me from my normal routine. My early starts have been reserved for staff meetings and one to ones with affected team members, not leaving me much spare time for training.

I did however manage to keep one evening free for a long run. In fact, my longest run. I'm not going to have time this weekend to do a long run - I'm going to Vienna for the weekend with a friend, and it seems unfair to her to take off for an 11 mile run when we are only there for a couple of days. Obviously, a runner knows that this is the ideal way to sightsee, but my travelling companion thinks my running activity is a sign of insanity and therefore I'm going to have to make do with a couple of shortish runs in the hotel gym before breakfast

So I opted to bring my long run forward a couple of days and run home from work. Since I moved house last summer, in theory I am now within long run distance of my place of work. Admittedly it's more of a marathon training long run than a half marathon one - effectively it's probably 14 miles between home and work, maybe a bit less or more depending on the route I decide to take. Running home would be a great way to save time and achieve a training goal - the ultimate in multitasking.

Wrong! I set off happily in the sunshine after work on Wednesday, hoping to get across Battersea, though the park and over to the north side of the river before the sun came down. My final destination was set for B&Q in Chiswick, where I would end my run with the purchase of a new kitchen tap and a ride home in the car by Beloved.

Less than a mile from the office, I set off merrily down the wrong road in south London. This applies literally and figuratively. God forbid London councils should include road signs at the start of every road, are we all supposed to just have a TomTom in our head now? I passed Nine Elms Sainsburys, blithely assuming this meant I was on Nine Elms road. Nope, I was on Wandsworth Road which, instead of hugging the river to Battersea Park, heads south west away from the river and the park.

If they ever wanted to film The Wire somewhere in England, Wandsworth Road would be a nice place to start - 'projects' on either side of the road, interspersed with desolation and some of the scariest looking pubs I have ever seen. There was the odd quirky bar or shop, for those middle class south Londoners who like to 'keep it real', but that was it. I did think about getting my phone out to check where I was but clearly Wandsworth Road doesn't get many runners and the entire population seemed to stop and stare at me as I hurtled past, so I didn't feel too confident about stopping and flashing an iphone around. I did however get a lovely mouthful of very strong dope smoke, just to make the run a bit more interesting. To make matters worse, Battersea Power Station loomed large in the background, mocking me with its ever increasing distance from my route.

So when I finally reached the bottom of Queenstown Road, meaning I knew where I was and how I could get to the park, I was deliriously happy. I was also conscious that my detour was going to significantly impact on my overall mileage but the sun was still shining so I just stopped worrying and sped up to reach the park while it was still light.

As I got into the park I got out my phone to see how far I'd run and bloody Endomondo hadn't worked! So I had to start tracking my run there and then, feeling totally deflated that I couldn't even take comfort from the fact I'd knocked a few miles off the distance already.

After being chased through the park by two yappy dogs and one careless owner, I was starting to feel a bit harrassed about the whole running home lark. The sun was going down, the temperature was plummeting and I remembered I had brought no food with me at all. At this stage, if I was an emoticon, it would be 'Frowny face'.

Relieved to see Chelsea and familiar territory, I went heading off north and onto the Kings Road. Knowing that this was essentially taking me south west again, I thought I had better start heading in the right direction and headed off north towards Parsons Green. With a quick pitstop for some emergency JellyTots in Parsons Green co-op, I headed off towards Fulham, with a view to running though Hammersmith and then into Chiswick.

Those of you who followed the marathon training in 2009 might recall the 'losing Hammersmith Bridge' incident. This week I went one step further and lost the whole of Hammersmith. Some might call this more efficient, but emoticon-wise, this took me into 'tears running down face' mode

As I went further and further down Fulham Road, distracted by very nice looking cafes, restaurants and posh butcher shops, I found myself heading South West yet again. Like a faulty compass. Given that the whole point of choosing the Battersea route was to avoid running through Putney the sign saying 'Putney' (straight ahead) was enough to drive me to a stiff drink. Instead it was more likely that it was me that was stiff, getting colder and colder as the evening wore on and by now running in circles.

As Fulham Road is much more suited to getting out an iphone and looking lost, I finally stopped for as short a time as possible, to find Hammersmith before I froze into an ice statue. Pointed in the right direction by GoogleMaps, I made one final phone call to advise Beloved that B&Q Chiswick was now a pipe dream and 'could I have a lift home from the tube station instead?'

Running the final leg back to Hammersmith, I have never been so cold. I could almost feel my thigh muscles stiffening as I moved, the temperature had dropped so dramatically. I have never been so pleased to see Hammersmith tube station in my entire life. Anyone who has been through the station will know that this is a sign of utter desperation.

Cold, miserable and fearing the worst for stiff muscles the next day, I prowled the shops of the tube station to find a suitable recovery foodstuff. I made do with the world's sweetest chocolate milkshake - though I could only finish half, it was so sugary.

Home, showered and feeling very sorry for my navigation skills, I vowed never to run south of the river again unless accompanied by a native. We northerners really need to know our limitations.

LON