4hrs 45mins. Tough day.

Hugh fought fatigue today, working his way from Fontenay la Comte to Bressuires, gritting his teeth manfully. Lovely countryside in which to grind the molars but a long haul.

Tiring day, owing as much to a lack of sleep as anything. We had a late planning evening the last day and no one got to bed early; a close to 2am finish (aah..). Does go to show that Hugh's day consists of more than 'just' running a marathon each day.

There also has been a bit of a feeling of being stuck in the 30s; thinking this will soon be over and yet there's an awful lot left to do. Equally no one wants it to end so we're like teenagers huffing and shrugging shoulders. 'Are we there yet' and when we do get to London it'll be a case of 'don't like it here, won't to get out of the car.' (or large van in this case).

On the upside there are unequivocal positives. Hugh has not yet had a blister. I remember how he lost half the soles of his feet in the Marathon des Sables due to deep blisters so does not want to experience anything like that again. His success this time is largely owing to the 1000 mile double skinned socks and the Profeet bespoke insoles. Also he doused his feet in surgical spirit for several months which makes them tough. Yawn time for most people reading, so apologies for that except for any running geeks, titillating over such details under the duvet with a flashlight..

George, joint head of UK desk, has made his presence felt. Alarmingly it appears he has the same language faculties as Jonny PR. They have effectively tag-teamed; one having stepped out of the ring to let the other in to dazzle the locals with lingo and massive barnet. George's crosses the boundaries of fair play and taste in its size; an 80s throwback - a smug Colby or an East German criminal in an early Die Hard film. This isn't good at all for my prospects avec les mademoiselles locales. I lean casually on the bar, Del Boy style uttering 'bon mot' in thanks for a 'giraffe de l'eau' whilst George wanders in, all golden flaxen haired, 'bon nuit-ing' toute le monde, waitresses simpering away. At dinner he waxes on about chouffluer and other obscure legumes, just because he can.

Soon I'm shaking my head into my creme brulee wondering how I can turn this around before the petit fours (and whether I should stick with the vouvray or move onto cognac). I've thought about resurrecting the Duponts but with heavy heart have conceded they aren't up to it. (By this stage, the blogs require frequent viewing so apols if you don't know what the hell I'm on about, they are my schoolboy French stories; and little assistance so far in breaking the ice). In a fit of pique I've retired them. I''ve decided my singe has been eaten by the dog, and Madam et Monsieur are arguing about whose idea it was to purchase a building (their windmill) that cost a fortune to convert and which now has an uncertain resale value, having now put them technically in negative equity. Everyone's shouting at le chien who having chased the monkey up the tree can't get down. A reality check to 1980s French rural living. Doesn't help me though as I watch George execute another coup de grace. Or is he ordering an ice cream?

We met up with WSM tonight, an uber PR agency, who have flown out to follow 50in50 on behalf of ON, one of our sponsors. Great fun but more about that next blog as this is tortuously long already.