I tend to judge the passing of each day by how knackered I am come close of play. If I fail to keep my eyes open before I reach the end of the first page of the bedtime read, then a big positive tick can be placed in the plus column.
Saturday was such a day. Please don't judge me, but that John Major autobiography really isn't going to get read anytime soon.
It's been a few weeks now since I last ran the @bwparkrun. Circumstances, weather and injuries have kept me away from the weekly running and WHOOPING around the beauty of Brockwell.
I pondered the Transpontine Trek early on Saturday morning, a slow plod that takes in Clap'ham, Brockwell and lovely Larkhall Park. But that would mean that I miss out on the @bwparkrun reward of a lido dip afterwards.
I didn't feel too strong during the prep talk. I looked around for Madam Pacemaker, but she was nowhere to be see.
No worries. I had a pleasant catch up with a Labour Cllr instead...
A Personal Best was never on option. I struggled up the hills, and then suffered on the way down. A lame sprint finish saw me home, happy just to finish rather than race against the clock.
And then later in the morning when the @bwparkrun email dropped, I found out that I was one second off a PB.
The purification in Lake Brockwell was beautiful.
I procrastinated for a while with the Icicles who had already put the weekend lengths in and were enjoying some Lido Cafe coffee.
The Brockwell skies bruised, and there was talk of the pleasures of wet weather swimming.
Five minutes later and I was doing the Lake Brockwell thing, completely oblivious to the thunder storm taking place around me. You don't feel the rain when you're already wet.
I managed 16 of the 20 lengths when a lifeguard gave me a friendly tap and asked me to leave the pool. South London lightening and a lido aren't the best of bedfellows.
A bit of business back at the Stockwell base, and then I was Brixton bound for the informal gathering of TedXBrixton.
This was my first visit to the recently opened Hub Brixton down in the basement of Lambeth Town Hall. It's a shared workspace for the bedroom freelancers of #Sw9. Natural light was at a premium, but I suppose it's better than dead civic space.
The TexXBrixton folk were lovely. The planning is underway for the main event taking place in October. These informal sessions were to source ideas and speakers around the theme of Two Worlds Collide.
The usual post it notes filled up an entire wall. Most of the #hyperlocal Brixton issues covering gentrification and displacement were covered. The suggestion of locals Will Self and Joanna Lumley as guest speakers would make for an interesting double header.
I then cycled it from Brixton up towards Blackfriars for the Nocturne Series, a city centre criterium around Smithfield.
It's a commute that I use to do daily back in the old Graun Farringdon Road days. I had forgotten how soulless the stretch is from Elephant over to Blackfriars.
The Nocturne was tremendous fun - a real celebration of London cycling. I snapped away for half an hour, and then reminded myself that I really should enjoy events for what they are, and not with the intention of amassing as much digital content as possible.
I walked a lap of the Smithfield circuit, trying to find a decent viewing location in amongst the five deep crowd.
A lengthy delay followed the first race with a serious injury to one of the riders. I randomly walked past the carnage as part of my circuit, and then took the decision to keep on walking.
It didn't look good, with a full on oxygen mask and a 45 minute delay to the racing indicating how serious it was.
I was due back on the Transpontine side of the Thames at 7:30 for a return to The Globe, and a return to the epic Titus Andronicus.
I've blogged before about the bloody destruction and all round gruesomeness of what is becoming the finest Bankside production for many seasoned Globe groundlings.
I'd agree 100% with this. It's rare for me to return to the same production for a second sitting / standing. I tweeted killing after killing, partly as an experiment in what you can get away with at The Globe, partly as an excuse for me to turn away when the sword was inserted from behind, deep inside the lady bits of the poor victim.
Another guttural Globe ROAR greeted the close of the production. It is a truly remarkable piece of theatre.
Come close of play back at base and I was knackered. Another successful day.
John Major was taking to his soap box ahead of the '92 election campaign. This should be sufficient to send anyone to sleep.
The body said beddy byes; the mind was still occupied with Titus.
A bloody good day.