Since I hurt the back of my foot a couple of months ago (running), and since I hurt the front of it a couple of weeks ago (stairs, large Gin and Tonic, my filing system on said stairs), and since I'm bored of sitting on my exercise bike in a room with a radio that only plays the Archers (even when in CD mode), today I decided I'd head out for a swim.
The odds were stacked against me.
My only trunks are now in their teen years, looking very faded and slightly marked in places from one summer when I was painting the lounge ceiling white during a heat wave.
Not to forget of course that's it the middle of winter. There's something ever so slightly off putting about leaving my warm house, getting into my frigid car, the inside warming up just as I reach the car park, then stripping off and having to cross the slippery tiles past the smirking teen lifeguards knowing that yes, it's lovely once you're in, but first you have to get past the blinding flash of arctic cold that is the pool.
And then have to deal with the inevitable ballooning of the trunks and the moment of half panic - are these the ones that go transparent?
Plus, I hate swimming. Length after length, width after width, the monotonous grind, trying to suck down hurried breaths and getting mouthfuls of water, feeling pretty nippy and then getting passed by an old guy with a float and only one leg.
It's not a surprise that the pool closed four minutes ago and I'm sat in my office writing this.
So I came up with a cunning, cannot fail, I'm warm now so sod tomorrow, plan.
It goes by the name of Early Swim. It scares the bejesus out of me.
But at least right now I'm warm.
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