Suzanne Harrington: Walking for homelessness — while hoping I won't end up living in the shed

Being menopausal helps the step count, given how I’m forever walking in and out of rooms forgetting what for.

To distract myself from the fact that my interest-only mortgage has gone up an eye-watering four hundred quid a month without any warning – thanks to me being stupid enough to live in the UK, and something the UK ‘government’ is calling a ‘mini-budget’, criticised by the IMF as “disorderly” which is global-finance-speak for the scream emoji – I sign up to a homeless charity’s initiative to raise money for homelessness by walking 10,000 steps a day.

Perhaps my subconscious thinks that if I hit the streets for street homelessness, my own home will somehow remain over my head.

Psychologists call this ‘magical thinking’.

Actually, that’s a lie. I had no intentions of walking anywhere for anyone.

What really happened was that when idly scrolling baby otter videos to take my mind off the very real possibility of having to go live in the garden shed, the 10,000 steps a day for October initiative popped up.

Mildly interested – how much is 10,000 steps again?

I tapped to have a look. Except I tapped the wrong thing.

Disaster.

Thank you for signing up, pinged my phone. And before you could say Kwasi Kwarteng, the first generous, supportive donation dropped in.

And then another. And another. I was half way to the modest target before I’d even got out of bed.

Unless I started issuing refunds – and what kind of monster would do that? – I’d have to do it.

Every single day, no ifs, no buts. Rain, wind, hail. Still, 10,000 steps is only about 5km, isn’t it?

Actually, it isn’t. It’s five miles. There’s no quick way of writing that, and there’s no quick way of doing it either. And there’s no days off.

Luckily, thanks to climate catastrophe, the weather is frighteningly lovely. 

Off I go across the open countryside, accompanied by the old dog and the young dog, my phone shoved in the strap of my yoga bra to record the steps.

Am I there yet? The old dog, once a champion walker, hobbles along stiffly, looking longingly towards home.

The young dog runs in circles around us, beside himself with excitement.

What if I could gaffer-tape my phone to his head? Given he has twice as many feet as me, would it double up the steps?

I could sit in the garden and throw a ball for him until the phone pinged 10,000. Or is that cheating?

Apart from the bald patches left on him by the gaffer-tape, how would anyone know?

Meanwhile, I walk. 

Being menopausal helps the step count, given how I’m forever walking in and out of rooms forgetting what for.

The old dog has mixed feelings about the whole enterprise, while the young dog wants us to sign up for a marathon.

I find myself hopping from one foot to another in front of Bake Off, waiting for the phone to ping 10,000, grimly determined to see it through - a bit like the UK government’s grim determination to make us all homeless. 

Tally ho.