Saturday

A Brockwell Park Run to start Saturday morning.

My deafness almost led to a PB.

Blimey.


I couldn’t hear the pre-race prep talk. It’s all lovely, happy clappy stuff, but I don’t usually pay any interest to be honest.

But just for once, I thought I better make sure that I am not missing out on some major route change.

And so I moved to the front of the throbbing crowd of runners.

Before you knew and the starting pistol had been fired [there is no pistol] and it was time t leg it.

Woh.

I was at the front. I was actually leading the Brockwell Park Run for all of 10 seconds.

I kept the pace up towards the first climb, and then slowly, slowly found my natural place in the Park Run pecking order.

I climbed Cressingham and thought of the Cabinet recommendation published some 12 hours earlier to bulldoze the estate.

A Lambeth Labour Cllr overtook me, right in the heart of Cressingham.

Cheers, fella.

But what of Madam Pacemaker?

I was actually ahead of her. WAY ahead of her.

She caught me up at the Tulse Hill gates, and that was sadly the end of our beautiful running relationship for the morning.

The split time suggested that I was on for a half decent final result. I gritted back up BMX Hill, and then pressed on for a sprint finish.

A final race time of 22:31 was 15 seconds off a PB.

Bugger.

Blame it on pastie #3 from Friday night.

Post-run, pre-swim and a German fella rocked up to the changing rooms for the first time at Lake Brockwell.

He was a charming chap, optimistic ahead of his first ever outdoor swim.

But he was also Herr No Hat.

Top to bottom in the latest black rubber, but no bloody hat.

OUCH.

I lent him my second hat, not really thinking about the consequences for myself.

I felt the extra bite as I entered the 7.7 waters of Lake Brockwell. My brain starting to signal all sorts of funny thoughts by the end of the first length.

Herr No Hat was chuntering away in German. He may have been dissing my camp pink hat.

Eight lengths was the aim; I pressed on for 10. I even managed a post swim short sun bathe, watching @oneeyegrey bobbing up and down in the beautiful blue water.

Some bruncheon at base - a phrase that had I typed out on this blog some ten years ago then I probably would have pulled the plug on it.

And then I cycled off for an afternoon of city explorations.

First stop was The Guildhall. The Unseen City space has just opened a Martin Parr exhibition.

It was bloody brilliant.


I shied away from street photography a few years ago. It just seemed so easy; it just seemed so rude. Plus I almost got hit.

I’m warming towards it once again.


I then made the short hop to the Museum of London. There was a Punk Show & Tell day ahead of the 40th anniversary [gosh] celebrations taking place around the city later this year.

The idea was to bring along any old punk artefacts, and then document your story behind them.

I felt slightly young for once.


Bunhill Boy

A photo posted by Jason Cobb (@jason_cobb_) on

And then finally I made it Bunhill Fields for a little solace, right in the centre of Old Street.

I still love the idea of being able to get up close to William Blake’s grave.

I still get lost around Old Street, even after spending a couple of years working up there.

Anna turned up at the flat early evening. She then buggered off to Bal’ham.

Cheers, luv.

I headed out in the opposition direction and:

“To The Globe!”

Or more to the point, to the Wannamaker Playhouse for an indoor production of The Tempest.

It was an intimate, and highly playful production. It was the first time that I have understood the play in 20 years of trying.

A decent day.

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