Saturday

Late for Castle Park Run on Saturday morning.

Except I wasn’t.

Park Run is Park Run. It always starts at precisely 9am in the parks across the UK.

Except Brockwell, which runs on S Ldn time.

Sunny Colch however has military precision for a Garrison town.

Be there for 9am or miss out.

I rocked up on Saturday morning at three minutes to nine, and almost missed out.

Steady the buffers, Madam Race Director. Nobody likes a premature start.

I made it to the start line with seconds to spare before the flag was dropped.

*no flag is dropped*

This was a rubbish time for me.

I finished strongly, then couldn’t work out why my watch was displaying a time close to 24 minutes.

OUCH.

I soon clocked on when the post-race talk revealed that the turnaround point was 250m or so further down the path from where it should be.

The official race time was 23’52” – 31st out of a field of 304.

I would have been 32nd if it wasn’t for LibDem Peter who was running around with his wife Theresa on the occasion of their 40th wedding anniversary.

awww.

#Colchester Park Run

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We had a little business in town: clothes being dropped off at the charity shop, buying some mailing bags ahead of my Great eBay sell off, and then trying to repair a zip on my FAVE retro cycling top.

One quote came in for Β£22.

GOSH.

Β£10 would have been more like it, Madam.

In the end I settled on Β£15 elsewhere.

A brief weights session, and then a very tired swim followed.

The Undertaker mocked me in the changing rooms with my lame forty lengths. I think he was measuring me up for a coffin.

A quick turnaround back at base, and then out went the shout of:

“To the canoes!”

Time and tide has kept us out of the water this season.

Or more to the point, Golf and cycling have kept us out of the water.

But it was a GLORIOUS estuary afternoon and we had a spare couple of hours.

It was an extremely high water down there.

We rowed against the incoming tide out towards the Creek. I moored at White House Beach and tucked into my sarnies.

I then realised that Anna wasn’t around.

oh.

I cruised back in as the tide was ebbing. I still couldn’t see Anna.

Oh dear.

I arrived back at the old Town hard, and there she was.

She got bored and turned around half an hour in.

We couldn’t hang around. I had a work shift at 3pm. Anna disappeared for her silly golf.

I watched the Loser’s Final.

Hey hoe.


And then some hot, steamy garden action.

The transported Transpontine magnolia has decided to flower once again the bloody estuary wilds.

GOOD EFFORT.

The brass band struck up the first note for the Last Night of the Village Proms.

OK…

Alexa: Play Screamadelica.

There.

Problem solved.

I had some random Saturday evening work shifts.

We caught up with the England ODI, and then made a start on Le Tour backlog.

There’s talk of a bloody garden centre in the morning.

wtf.

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