In the run-up to the Olympics Cornish rower Annabel Vernon will be giving Western Morning News readers a unique insight into the day-to-day life of an elite athlete as she prepares for the ultimate race. Join her every week, and all the way to London.

My dad, a farmer, is fond of passing on homespun rural wisdom to his children. His favourite mantra is: "The only thing separating a good farmer and a bad farmer is two weeks."

It doesn't take more than a few weeks of poor fortune to go from a hero to a zero, and I think that is equally true of international sport. It is particularly relevant to where I am now, because we've got a few weeks ahead which will prove crucial to what I want to achieve in the summer.

We're back in Blighty now and the next six weeks will encompass two tests on the rowing machines, selection races, and a national trials regatta at the Olympic course, near Slough.

After the trials, the selectors will hopefully have enough information on us to select the crews, so I should know by the end of March which boat I will be rowing in, and which combination of people will hopefully help me to achieve my Olympic ambitions – my shipmates, if you like.

Talking about whether or not I have a chance of Olympic gold is irrelevant until I'm selected to have the opportunity to do so, and I need to do well enough in our internal testing to make the quad scull, which is the boat I have rowed in for most of my career. If I don't make the quad, then I'll be in the eight instead, which is an entirely different scenario, with different crewmates and a different history.

It will still be competitive for a medal, but it's never been close to winning. Plus, the few Olympic tickets that my friends and family have managed to get hold of are for the quad final, so I'd better make sure I'm in that boat!

Dealing with internal selection is, in many ways, a trickier experience than racing internationally. Everybody dreams of putting in a phenomenal performance in their Olympic final; nobody dreams of being dropped from the squad on a cold March afternoon because you lost your selection race.

Hence this time of year is almost more heartbreaking than the thrills and spills ahead of us in the summer. I'm in the fortunate position whereby I'm towards the top of the squad, so if I don't make the quad then I can still go into the eight. But, for those at the bottom of the squad, it's all or nothing.

This is a tough, cruel business where the winner gets the spoils. When you see people on the television in July pronouncing themselves absolutely gutted because they came fourth, remember those who missed out on a place by perhaps a tenth of a second and has to sit at home watching their friends compete.

The nuts and bolts of selecting crews is difficult because the team aspect of the sport is so strong – it's hard to measure one individual's impact on the boat. One person may be more powerful than another yet less skilled; one person might make the boat go faster right now but somebody else might be better at getting the crew moving fast over the months that we're together.

My attitude towards selection is to try to not get distracted by speculation about where I might lie in the rankings, or what the coaches are thinking, but instead to focus on the goal at the end.

My maxim is that I need to ensure I'm good enough to be the best in the world whatever scenario I find myself in, and then my selection will take care of itself.

Along with all the fun and games ahead, I'm trying to cram as much 'normal life' in as I can because we're only home for a month. Socialising with friends, time with my family, going to the theatre and the cinema, quality time with my boyfriend, shopping, cooking; funnily enough, all the kind of things that women in their twenties like to do in their spare time. It's all these activities that act as safety valves to remind me that there is a world outside the pressure cooker of Olympic sport.