6am work shifts to start the weekend.
OH HAI, Saturday.
It wasn’t all that bad; I chose to work and top up the funds.
Plus I had finished by 8am, and so set off on the short walk to the local South Notts village pool.
This use to appear to be Olympic sized back in the day during stuffy school swimming lessons.
It now appears to have shrunk.
The limited width of the pool made it a tricky Saturday morning swim, even with only half a dozen other swimmers in the pool.
I put in 50 lengths, and then suffered the post-swim experience of a mixed ‘village changing room.’
URGH.
No swim is a bad swim, mind.
Some catching up time with the parents, and then I headed out to the Fair City to meet Anna from the train station.
This was the first time that we have seen each other since the mad cat situation.
We spoke about the loss, and then resolved to carry on.
Which for Saturday morning meant something of a nostalgia trip around all of my old Nottingham haunts that are no longer there.
Castle Gate was the first point of call.
Radio Trent, RIP.
Was it really 30 years ago when I rocked up to start my first proper job?
We also lost Selectadisc a long, long time ago. But Market Street for me will always mean digging through the crates for obscure indie bands, and flicking through the football fanzines.
It’s reassuring to see that a half-decent vintage clothes shop is now on the site of the old Selectadisc flagship store. The Cure’s Killing an Arab was playing on the in-store PA. Nothing had changed.
We had a brief wander around Victoria Centre. I headed for the market, looking to rediscover the ambience I fondly remember of working on a record store for two happy years.
The store has long since gone. I still often ponder the idea of setting up my own market record store.
Do things actually still exist?
TK Maxx delivered with a new waistcoat. We were too tired to head any further up Mansfield Road.
We headed back to the family base, crossing over Trent Bridge just as the Forest crowd was gathering.
Poor sods.
I was half-tempted to return to the Trent End, but I would have absolutely no idea of the culture of the club I grew up watching.
We watched the t20 semis on Sky instead.
And then late afternoon we headed out to watch my old friend Richard playing cricket down at Platt Lane.
Plus some BOOZE and a meal in a West Bridgford pub.
Except I stayed dry. I’m still in no mood to unwind and carry on as though the mad cat is still with us.
But it’s getting better.