A return to the Keyworth Duck Pond on Monday morning.

Oh dear.

This was the pool of my youth; it was a place to be avoided, as unsure teenage bodies went through the weekly PE ritual of Show and Tell.

I embraced the Duck Pond on Monday morning.

I dived in, proudly displaying how the unsure teenage torso has now settled down into something of middle-aged acceptance.

I’m too SEXY for my goggles, Comrades.

The plans was for 40 lengths. I pushed on with 50.

The ‘village’ changing rooms were as bollocks as ever.

Showering in a mixed environment, and then sweating your arse off in a pokey cubicle defies all logic for the swimmer.

Any sense of physical freedom is removed, and all because you can’t give yourself a proper male shower.

We’re talking knob cheese here.

My swim had been sullied.

Monday morning was spent on work shifts. Ivor Cutler on Late Junction kept me company.

I also played catch up by exploring the Simon Reynolds’ Rip It Up Spotify playlist.

My new love for Essex libraries has led me to having Rip It Up on order. I thought I would prepare for the reading with some Monday morning post-punk riffs.

My sister came round for a brief luncheon visit.

And then I had to start the long trip back to *over there*

The train from Nottingham back to the splendour of St Pancras was fine.

It all went a little shitty once Greater Anglia got involved at Liverpool Street.

The fella sitting opposite me was wearing flip flops and drinking a can of Spesh.

Fine effort, Sir.

Chin chin.

For some WEIRD reason I found myself at a Wivenhoe Town Council meeting as soon as I got back.

LIVE the dream, Jase.

Dog shit was on the agenda.