A disjointed working day and a little wayward scheduling. No worries. It all lead to the first: 'To the hammock!' call of the spring.
That's not something you hear said in the City.
With the grass seed having only just gone down at the start of the week, I was touching cotton so to speak, as I attempted to enter the hammock.
Hammock ownership has long since been an ambition of mine. I have purred for having the pleasure of rocking back and forth ever since the days of watching Popeye as a child.
Mid-life crisis comes in many forms; fast cars, fancy bikes or loose women.
I chose a hammock.
Rather conveniently the house came with hammock hooks, but no hammock. A bit of an eBay trawl later, and job's a good 'un. I can now hang it up and swing with the rest of them.
But in the first week of April?
I'm entering unknown hammock territory.
Getting in and out is the main challenge. There's no definitive technique. Like mounting a horse or launching a canoe, you either do it with majestic grace or you're left flat on your arse.
I wasn't left sniffing grass seed during the delightful break in the disjointed working day. I got my leg over [yeah] and was hammock happy.
Tunes, words, and a cup of tea.
Neneh Cherry just seemed right for the occasion. A spirited, cheeky burst of cock-a-hoop street pop to celebrate the work armistice.
What's he like? ...the guy's a gigolo, MAN.
But not for long. My reading material of the Surrey County Cricket Club Accounts 2013/14 remains unread. The cup of tea went cold. I was out for the count before Neneh even got to track 2 with her Man Child woes.
I was awoken by the sound of my own snoring, an overcast eastern sky and a possible mouthful of Saharan sand.
Time to get out. Time to sniff some grass seed.
Happy hammock days, Comrades.