I started writing this at 1am having hit out at my hubbie in my fitful sleep.

In the early hours of Friday morning my nerves were shot to pieces at the thought that the 2009 Flora London Marathon was almost upon us.

The nerves really started when the BBC showed its trailer for its Sunday morning coverage and the strains of Chariots of Fire came over the airwaves.

It’s the tune everyone associates with the marathon, but it’s also the tune played at the funeral of Oswestry Olympians founder, Doug Morris, one of those who cajoled and encouraged my into running.

I smile as I think of the huge grin that would be on his face if he knew Mel and I were taking part in the marathon.

That word. I feel queasy at the very thought.

I never knew the meaning of the phrase “scared sick” until now – and there are still two days to go.

Husband Mel seems so calm but then it will be his second marathon and I always get more nervous than him, even in smaller races and events.

Friends and running colleagues have all tried to reassure me: “You have done the training, the miles are in the bank, you have done everything right, you will be fine”, they say.

But what if I am not? What if I set off too fast, get horrific blisters or worse? What is the wall really like and when will I hit it?

What if I let everyone down and have to give up and suffer the mortification of having to board a tube to get to the finish.

The fear of failure has always stopped me doing many things in my life - it so very nearly stopped me applying for a place in the marathon, and is now making me feel completely wretched.

Packing last night saw me so stressed I yelled at everyone who got in my way. It’s the first time the rest of the family have really suffered because of my decision to enter the marathon.

But now, now actually in London, different nerves are beginning to take over, positive nerves and adrenalin.

Registering at London’s huge Excel Centre, picking up my timing chip I shake with a mix of fear and emotion and can hardly speak.

Hundreds of people are doing exactly the same, all with their own fears, dreams and excitement.

Athlete Martin Yelling speaks on stage, telling us not to let panic and nerves overwhelm us and giving us strategies to deal with the race of our lives.

I feel so special, part of a tiny percent of the British public who have entered the London Marathon.

Back at the hotel I proudly thread my red laces into my running shoes.

All marathon runners are asked to wear them, each pair that cross the finish line earns money for a heart charity – just one of the charities set to make millions from this event.

Mel and I, with the help of our many friends and family, have already made £1,500 for the Oswestry Spinal Cord Appeal for Research, and sponsor money is still coming in.

Friends, family, workmates, acquaintances, local businesses, even strangers, have all given us tremendous support, whether helping with fundraising, running with us on our training, making flapjacks that are filling us with good carbohydrates, stopping us in the street to give us sponsor money, or giving us advice. Ten will even be there along the route to shout us on.

I check my kit time and time again, even though there are still 24 hours before the race.

I have my t-shirt emblazoned with my name and the OSCAR logo. And pinned on it are special mementos, the ribbons we wore at Doug’s funeral, my Dad’s regimental badge and a special Marie Curie daffodil.

My closest family will be in London, my husband will be on the course and others will be there in spirit, willing us on.

And hung round my neck will be a very special St Christopher that belonged to our dear friend Steve who died two years ago.

His wife, Linzi, pressed it into my hand this week. “Take this with you, Steve would have been so proud of you and would have known you could do it,” she said.