Six years ago my girlfriend at the time did something stupid.

She resigned.

She didn’t resign from a dead end job. She wasn’t working for minimum wage in some grotty cafe. She didn’t hate her employers.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

She worked in The City for a swanky architecture and design practice. She got the job after seeing an ad in The Guardian. Over a thousand people applied for that job, and she got it.

And then she quit.

She quit and joined a tiny education start-up. She was the third person to join. This start-up had a generic, tiny office in a place where loads of tiny start-ups exist. They had no funding, no students, no courses, no logo, no website.

But she still left her big, impressive job in The City for this tiny start-up. And she dedicated the next five and a half years of her life to making that tiny start-up one of the most important things to happen to Suffolk for a long time.

She is my wife, and that tiny start-up was University Campus Suffolk.

Six years ago, I was in a dead end insurance job. I hated every godforsaken minute of it. And my wife pushed me to be better; to do something I really wanted to do.

Today, I have a business that I love, where I get to work with some truly talented and wonderful people.

One of those people graduated from University Campus Suffolk today. Well done, Luke.

This post isn’t intended to be self-congratulatory. If you think it is, you’re wrong.

Instead, this post is the proof that you can make a difference. It is a testimonial for doing something you really want to do, no matter how foolish anybody thinks you are.

What are you going to be doing in six years? Something that you love or something that you hate?

Today could be the day that you might make a change.

Here’s seven:

1. Big achievements require hard work
Sounds bloody obvious, but sometimes there just isn’t a shortcut. Running a half marathon requires you to run for thirteen miles. And the only way to do it well is to put in the miles before the big day.

Want to do something remarkably rewarding? Make a decision to do it, and get to work.

2. Small victories make big achievements
I didn’t try to run thirteen miles today. Instead, I decided the first mile would be a warm-up, then I’d settle into a nine-mile run, and finish with a gruelling five kilometres. My parents’ house was half-way into the nine miles, too – so it was a great boost when all my family were outside cheering me on.

Avoid big idea inertia by ripping it into smaller pieces.

3. Don’t follow the crowd
“Pace yourself,” they tell you. “I will,” you say. You have every intention of doing so. Then the race begins, runners push forward, and the adrenaline kicks in. Before you know it, you’re running much faster than you want to, fully aware that you’ll pay for it in the latter parts of the race. This happened to me today. I had to slow down, let people overtake me, and stick to my strategy.

Know what you’re trying to achieve and have the confidence to stick to it.

4. Be proud of your achievement
It’s very British to be quiet about your successes; after all, nobody likes a boaster. But being proud of doing something difficult isn’t necessarily boasting. Who knows? Your achievement might inspire others to do something remarkable. Watching Mo Farah storm to victory in Daegu inspired me to step up my training and do this half marathon. As did training with Jen.

Modesty is an overrated virtue.

5. Dress for success
I bought a special pair of Nike underpants and a nice Adidas t-shirt for the run today. Not because they’d make me a better runner, but because they made me feel like a better runner. Nothing wrong with that in my book. In fact, I think we can trick ourselves into performing better by getting ourselves in the right mindset. And if what you wear does the trick, why the hell not?

You can’t always change your attributes, but you can change your attitude.

6. Don’t judge yourself against others
While I was huffing and puffing my way round Ipswich, finally finishing my half marathon in two hours, seven minutes and nine seconds, Kenya’s Patrick Makau was in Berlin setting a new world record for the full marathon in a time of two hours, three minutes and 38 seconds. Simply incredible running – but I’m no less thrilled to have completed my half marathon.

If you’re always comparing your achievements to those of others, you’re in for a miserable ride.

7. Get some support
Running’s a lonely old sport (although there’s appeal in the solitude). But running today wasn’t lonely at all. People came out of their houses to clap and cheer, the marshalls were supportive throughout the course, and loads of people tweeted me with messages of encouragement. My lasting memory of today will be seeing my dad with 200m to go. He was willing me on, just he like used to when I was a terrible eight-year-old footballer – with pride and passion and unwavering love. I sprinted those last 200m on the adrenaline of those claps and cheers. Thanks, Dad.

Want to do something big? Surround yourself with brilliant people.

I’m a little bit scared.

Because thirteen miles is a bloody long way, isn’t it? Frankly, driving thirteen miles is a pain in the arse. So running thirteen miles is going to be an incredible pain in the arse, and the legs, and the arms, and the chest …

But there’s also a part of me that’s looking forward to it. I’ve never, ever attempted this kind of distance, so it’s going to be a massive personal challenge and – if I get round in under two hours without resorting to walking– a bloody massive achievement.

But what I’m doing is child’s play compared to Jen, my little sis.

On the same day, Jen will be running the Berlin Marathon. Last year she did New York, the year before that London.

Proper. Massive. Marathons.

Jen will be running for the Stroke Association, and for good reason. Strokes don’t just affect the elderly, the desperately unwell, and the unfit. They strike otherwise perfectly healthy people every day. And sometimes they kill.

Jen’s raised nearly half of her £500 target thus far. I’d really fucking appreciate it if you could bolster her fundraising with a few quid.

To donate, please visit http://www.justgiving.com/jenni-askew0/.

It’ll take you two minutes. Unlike me and my half marathon.

Thanks.

Bradley isn’t just my sister’s little boy; he’s the kid that made everything okay again.

I remember buying him a Build-a-Bear in Hamley’s London toy store just before he was born. I kissed the heart that sits inside that bear’s stuffing before he was stitched up. It’s a silly ritual that they probably make everybody do, but it still meant something to me.

Bradley’s birth drew a line under what had been a really sad time for our family. I cried a lot when I first met him on that chilly Boxing Day morning. And then I gave him that bear.

Today he’s a little lad, full of wonder, mischief and kindness – all in equal measures. I hope he loves school.

This blog post doesn’t really have a point. I saw the photo of Bradley in his school uniform on Facebook, got a bit emotional, and opened WordPress.

Perhaps it’s just one of those moments that’ll forces me to take stock of what I have. And maybe try to appreciate this absurd life a little bit more before it flashes by and I’m taking a photograph of my daughter on her first day at school with my iPhone 9.

It’s a favoured riposte amongst today’s yoof when some old fogey points out that their twenty-strong huddle may be an inconvenience to the rest of the world.

Let’s hope that these same teenagers remember that phrase when it comes to choosing their career path.

Because when I was at school, the idea of starting your own business was a non-starter. You were not to entertain such thoughts. Multi-millionaires like Richard Branson start their own business. Mere mortals like us don’t.

Our education system must get away from this idea that starting your own business is synonymous with taking over the world and making a frigging fortune.

Yes, some people do make lots of money. But many business owners make a decent if not extraordinary wage doing something they love, by doing it better than most other businesses.

And let’s face it: all of us, on a daily basis, think we can do better than a business we come into contact with.

Maybe you can’t do it better on a grand scale, and maybe you can’t afford 30 second slots during X-Factor, but if you can do something remarkably better than other companies, people will talk and your customer base will grow.

You don’t have to run a business how people run businesses on TV.

You don’t have to wear a suit, drive a like a prat, and be an all-round arsehole to be a ‘boss’.

You don’t have to have a row of PCs under fluorescent lighting in an uninspiring room to call it an office.

And you needn’t have offices in all the major cities, a workforce of thousands and a turnover of billions to be a success.

You can run your business however you bloody-well like.

It is, after all, a free country.

Here’s a few thoughts from my (short) travels.

1. On arrival, there’s a ‘drive-thru’ style check in desk. (I’m not one for this nu-speak, but the spelling ‘drive-through’ seems awfully archaic.) Even now, I am thrilled by completing a transaction from the comfort of my car. Why aren’t there more drive-thrus? (Okay, the plural looks odd.) Surely a drive-thru Argos would be a winner? Or a drive-thru Post Office? Perhaps a drive-thru Tobacconist? More drive-thrus, please.

2. In stark contrast to (1), life would be a lot more pleasant if we didn’t have cars. The Center Parcs system of not allowing cars in the complex other than on arrival/departure days (which are Mondays and Fridays) makes walking and cycling a lot more pleasant and substantially safer. Perhaps the riduclous petrol prices can only be countered with a radical rethink on the way we use cars.

3. My laptop died a few days before we left. The villa didn’t have Wi-Fi. As a result, I spent a weekend with my focus firmly on my family. I should do that more often.

I awoke feeling like shit. And after some thought, concluded that my body probably wasn’t built to run on post-birth adrenaline and Wotsits.

(There’s an important lesson here: If you’re planning on being a hero and looking after people, you’ll be no good to anyone unless you look after yourself.)

So feeling like I was nursing my hangover from Zoe’s wedding all over again, I ambled up to the hospital to see my beautiful girls.

Maggie had started feeding properly, so we were given the all clear to head home. Which was brilliant news, but at the time I felt like I could barely look after myself, let alone my young family.

I tried to shake it off, but the headache was so bad it was making me feel sick. I made lunch, and struggled through that. But the time came when I had to admit defeat and say to Caroline that I needed to lie down.

Now, at that point, I honestly felt like a total failure; I was less than 36 hours into fatherhood and pleading with my wife (who’d hardly had a relaxing time of late) for some rest.

I felt like the worst dad in the world.

At this point, you might be pleading with me to get some fucking perspective. Well let me tell you, when Maggie popped her little head out, my entire outlook on life changed. Perspective can only be gained when you understand what’s in front of you.

I have no clue whatsoever what’s on the horizon, and therefore no fucking perspective.

The good news is that my paternity hangover finally passed with a double dosage of paracetamol and Nurofen. I made a spectacularly average spaghetti bolagnese for dinner, and had a relaxing evening with my two favourite girls.

That evening has lasted until 4.15am thus far.

But I’m not complaining.

The reason being my first child, Maggie Jean Waters, was born at 8.16am this morning.

I feel like I should write something down for the sake of posterity or something. So this will be poorly edited garbled nonsense, but it’ll be honest and true.

Okay. First, it’s fucking incredible. And I know that we’re all supposed to feel that way because of TV and film and suchlike – we feel it’s our duty to shed a life-affirming tear / have an emotional breakdown at the birth of our first child. But when another human that you helped to create falls out of your wife and starts breathing, it’s bloody hard not to dodge that tidal wave of joyous wonder.

Second, I realised that the world needn’t be just one big, horrible popularity contest. Because once you create a family, you really couldn’t give a flying fart what someone else chooses to do with their money / time / emotions / sexual organs. You care instinctively and intensely about your own.

Third, I had a weird sense of wanting to tell everyone and nobody. Part of me wanted to phone the whole of my address book, and upload every last photo on Facebook and Twitter. And the other part wanted nobody to know; I wanted to cocoon myself with my new family for as long as possible.

Fourth, I felt like the best photographer in the world today. Every photo I took of my beautiful baby girl was a belter. If you’re crap at photography like me, capturing the magic is a whole lot easier when there’s tonnes of magic to go around.

Fifth, midwives are incredibly kind, loving and skilled people.

Sixth, there’s nothing quite like the birth of a child, but that doesn’t mean you can’t prepare for it. Caroline and I didn’t go to NCT. We went to one all-day class together that covered only the labour, but in great detail. As a result, I was calm and always felt in control (which if you think about it, is fucking stupid) throughout the birth.

Seventh, read the above paragraph with a pinch of salt because 75% of the things I learned on that day we didn’t actually use.

Eighth, get some sleep when you can.

Goodnight.

I’m probably the only person who finds this interesting, but I couldn’t help notice the photograph on this box.

Now it’s not uncommon to have lifestyle photography on product packaging, but this is a man with a baby. In fact, I’d go so far as to assume that this chap in the hat is actually a dad.

And I think this is interesting is because mum is absolutely nowhere to be seen on the packaging.

Over the last thirty-nine weeks, my wife and I have bought seemingly everything with a mum and a baby on the packaging. We’ve arranged it in a room and called it the nursery.

All that’s left to do is have a baby and look after it. (I presume now is the easy bit.)

Maybe dad in the hat on the box resonated with me because I’m about to become him without a hat and a modelling contract.

Or maybe it’s because more than half a ounce of thought whizzed through the designer’s head before they purchased the stock photography.

Either way, it made me think.

Anyway, I told you I’d be the only one who finds this interesting.