This Sunday, me and Rachel decided to do a GoodGym community mission and volunteer as marshals for the Hove Park Junior Parkrun. A wholesome start to the morning — helping the local community, cheering on young runners, and getting a bit of fresh air. What could go wrong?

As I made my way to the park, I started thinking about my own running. You see, I always seem to end up last in my age category at Parkrun (well, they call it age grade, which somehow sounds even worse). And as a 39-year-old staring down the next age bracket, I can’t say I’m particularly excited about it.

Then it hit me: Why volunteer when I could just run the Junior Parkrun and win? It’s a shorter distance, right? Surely, I could take gold!

In my head, I lined up at the start, ready to show those under-14s how it’s done. The whistle blew — and off I went. Run, run, Forrest, run! Parents shouted something (probably words of encouragement, maybe not), but with my headphones in, I didn’t care. I was flying. Some gave me looks — clearly just jealous of my speed.

And as I reached the finish line, I did it. I won! Because age is just a number, and the sky is the limit.

…Did that actually happen? No. Did I end up marshalling as planned? Yes. Was all that just a vivid daydream while clapping and cheering from my post? Absolutely.

Still, it was a brilliant morning — great atmosphere, enthusiastic runners, and plenty of smiles. I’ll definitely be back to marshal again. (Though I’m still slightly amazed they let me.)

When I moved to Brighton in 2014, I loved everything. I loved the beach, I loved the people, I liked the piers — I enjoyed everything about Brighton. But what I hated, from the moment I arrived, were the seagulls.

I never understood why we, as a population, tolerate their screeching, their evil stares, their habit of snapping up food, the relentless flapping of wings, that territorial attitude. Since 2014, I’ve always avoided them. I never spoke to them, never wanted to be anywhere near them.

That changed last week. A friend invited me to help out at a seagull sanctuary in Hailsham called Bird Aid — yes, it’s real, you can look it up. We drove there and met Julia, the charity organizer, who gave us our tasks: cleaning the sheds, scooping out dried feces, and refreshing their water.

To my surprise, I thoroughly enjoyed it. Somewhere between the scrubbing and refilling, I started to feel… connected. I began to see the seagulls differently.

I’ll never forget the time I went on a date in Hastings — of all places — and a seagull pooped on me. But I think I’m finally over it.

Now, after spending time with them, I’m happy to say I’ve made peace with the seagulls. They’re not so bad — in fact, they can be quite nice, if you don’t provoke them. So if you’ve ever felt the way I once did, I ask you to reconsider.