Earlier this week, I set out on a training session, determined that the snow, slush and ice in the Durham countryside would not interfere with my running schedule.

As I left my house and made my way to the track in the Deerness Valley, which has become my preferred training ground, I felt pretty smug with myself that I had become so committed that I was happy to turn out in all weathers.

But that smugness was to be wiped off my face with rude abruptness.

I'd barely made it one mile when my foot slipped from beneath me, twisting at the same time in an awkward angle, and before I could put my arms out to break my fall, I was crashing to the ground.

The track was completely deserted; the dog-walkers and horse-riders I often see on my route had obviously been far more sensible than me and stayed indoors.

But at least that meant there was no one around to witness my embarrassment and the bruising I suffered was limited to my behind and not my ego.

Whilst I managed to quickly scramble back to my feet, it soon became clear my training session was now at an end.

I had twisted my right ankle and was struggling to put any weight on it. My jog had become a hobble and I didn't want to risk causing any further damage.

Feeling pathetically defeated I limped back home, where I consoled myself with a custard doughnut.

Even though my ankle was throbbing and I knew the best thing for it was to keep it elevated and covered with a bag of frozen veg, the only feeling I had was one of sheer disappointment.

Instead of thinking about my road to recovery, my first reaction was "woe is me; my marathon dream is doomed"!

I know injuries can happen all the time to anyone and need to be treated seriously, but I remember a time when I wasn't such a wimp.

When I was three I broke my leg after tripping on an uneven paving stone. I was taken to hospital, where I was fitted with a thigh-high pot.

Did I take advantage of this state, demand treats and insist I stay in and lie on the sofa, so my parents could wait on me?

No. Instead, my parents took me and my sisters on a trip to Flamingo Land, where I spent much of the day running about like nothing had happened and playing on the helter-skelter.

So where has that little girl gone? It seems she's turned into a 29-year-old constant worrier and pessimist.

Well, not anymore. Whilst I admit it would be foolish to attempt to run on my ankle as it is, I have found some "ankle strengthening exercises" on the internet, which I am now going to carry out every day to help it on the mend, but also continue to prevent further injury.

And once it's a little better, I'll be able to swap jogging for cycling on my exercise bike for a while. I figured this would work the muscles in my legs, and get my heart rate up, without putting too much pressure on my joints.

I'm determined to be fighting fit come the big day - April 22. But, for now, where did I put those custard doughnuts?