There was a period of my life when my dating history could probably best be described as a car crash.
Not tragic. Just… chaotic.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, I met a man called Jesus.
Yes. Jesus.
I really liked him. He was funny, interesting, and he was actually the person who first planted the idea in my head that I could run a marathon.
At that point I was already a runner, but a marathon felt like a completely different thing. Twenty-six-point-two miles sounded slightly ridiculous.
But once the idea was in my head, that was it.
Then, in keeping with the general theme of my dating life at the time, Jesus disappeared.
Completely.
Ghosted.
No dramatic ending, no big conversation. Just gone.
So I carried on with my life, kept running, and eventually decided I was going to do the Paris Marathon.
By then, the marathon had become mine. I was training for it, planning for it and getting ready to head to Paris.
Then came the part you genuinely could not make up.I got on the train to Paris.
And there he was.
Jesus.
On the bloody train.
Of all the trains, on all the days, heading to all the places in the world, there was the man who had disappeared from my life — travelling to the very marathon he had helped put into my head in the first place.
I remember thinking the whole thing was completely absurd.
Later, I was sitting in a pub with my friends telling them about it when something suddenly dawned on me.
I said:
“Only I could date a man called Jesus who disappeared at Christmas and came back at Easter.”
They spat their drinks out all over the bar.
And honestly, that probably sums up my dating life at the time better than anything else ever could.
The funniest part is that although Jesus disappeared, the marathon idea didn’t.
I ran Paris.
So I suppose I should thank him for one thing.
Although perhaps not for the resurrection. 
