I really didn't want to swim on Sunday morning.
This is a rarity. It is part of my routine. The day doesn't start until I have been refreshed by a swim.
But I really didn't want to swim on Sunday morning.
Or maybe it was that I really didn't want to brave the outdoor waters of Lake Brockwell?
As ever, the effort was in getting there.
I delayed. I dithered.
I rocked up poolside around 10am, knowing that I had ACHIEVED.
I had yet to enter the water, but once you are there, then you are going to swim.
I messed around a little further in the changing room, delaying le grand depart.
I re-laced my trainers.
And then I went for it.
6.7 degrees, and six lengths to match.
What a HERO.
And then in strolled Lido Ed. I casually asked him how many lengths he had managed.
I felt like crying.
Ed cheered me up with shared childhood tales of Wollaton Park, back in the Fair City.
Batman - blimey.
I had plans to cycle off to the Nu Battersea for yet another exhibition. But I was bloody knackered and cold.
And so I stayed in the flat and caught up with some online twaddle, blogging the Scrap Trident snaps, and then Dulwich and hockey match reports.
I made it back outside again late afternoon. It was actually warmer than inside the flat.
I had half an hour of anarchic gardening.
It was more picking up crisp packets than tending to the green growth to be honest.
But yeah - that Sunny Stockwell miracle soil is working wonders. It is blessed with Transpontine gold.
I headed out to Brixton early evening for the Topcats at the Rec. The Ruffhouse was hosting a very late arriving team from Worcester.
The away team spent the first two quarters warming up and taking a hefty beating.
Just over an hour later and they were buzzed off court and back to Worcester.
I managed some housework back in the flat, and then published the school content from Friday.
Sunday came to a close with a couple of hours of work shifts late evening.
I haven't warmed up all day to be honest