The piece was first written for a Lido cold water swimming project.

My first experience of swimming was in an overheated municipal pool back in Nottingham.

It reminded me of bath time in the family home - an uncomfortable experience, revealing body flesh in a tub so warm, you could probably boil potatoes in it.

I hated it.

My second experience of swimming was drifting out to sea as a young child in North Norfolk, and realising that I was in danger of drowning.

I loved it.

The sense of freedom surrounded me as I surveyed the deepening waters. Choppy times were ahead if I carried on with my quest to see where the water took me.

The only alternative was to flap around and gain the attention of my family back on the beach.

My boyhood logic soon told me that flapping was perhaps the best thing to do. My mother caught my attention and mistook my flap for a friendly family wave.

She waved back and took a photograph of me half-drowning.

I confess that the choppy North Norfolk seas were only half a metre deep.

This childhood memory was the start of my lifelong love affair of swimming. I have been a boy and man of water ever since.

Lake Brockwell has become my North Sea substitute. I still get occasional waves from folk in the Lido Cafe whenever I am a little out of my depth.

I didn’t fully embrace cold water swimming until very recently. The winter of 2013 was my first season of sporting the Brockwell red rash.

Pimples form all over my body from October to March. I see them as a sign of personal strength; others think that I have a low tolerance to modern life.

My definition of cold water swimming has switched since three winters ago. The start of May and the opening of the Lido for the first time in the calendar was always the best day of the year.

I remember rocking up on the morning after the 2010 General Election. I hadn’t slept and was without a swimming cap.

The water temperature of 15 degrees caused more of a shock than the election result. Fifteen degrees and a hung Parliament would now feel like a luxury.

Yet still we return, day in, day out, all set for the ritual of the blue Brockwell experience.

Make no mistake - routine is the main motivation that makes us put up with such folly first thing in the morning.

Without a cold water swim and my day is lost. I need that reassurance that for ten minutes or so each morning in mid-winter, I can be a hero.

The sense of achievement is immense. It lives with me for the rest of the day, all the way through until bedtime when occasionally the tears start as I consider what I need to achieve in the morning if I don’t want to accept personal failure.

It’s best not to think about the process to be honest. Just make sure that you turn up at the lovely lido, and then you will swim. I try not to contemplate what is to come as I undress and prepare for the swim.

Even the Walk of Shame past the Lido Cafe is an experience where swimming is the last thing on my mind.

It is only when the ritual of a deep end plunge hits me that I realise, oh - what have you just done, you fool?

And then I am away.

My focus is on completing the first length. I have long since learnt not to flap like a five year old cast aside in North Norfolk.

Breathing is everything. This needs to be controlled as you touch down for the first time in the shallow end. Rhythm and routine will carry you through the remainder of the lengths.

By the end of the second length and I am giggling uncontrollably. I often wonder if the water amplifies this for my fellow cold water swimmers?

I find it a genuinely funny experience each day. You are achieving something that is absolutely bonkers.

My love of cold water swimming has led me to flirt with other outdoor tarts. Tooting is too much of a big girl for me to take on. London Fields brings me out in a sweat. I once had an unfortunate experience with a dead fish at the Serpentine.

And so Lake Brockwell draws me back, day in, day out. When non-swimming friends talk about expensive foreign holidays, I just draw a complete blank.

Why would you want to travel anywhere else when you have a beautiful art deco outdoor pool open all year round right on your doorstep?

I do still miss North Norfolk, mind.