A hip guy, with a three stroke engine.

Wake at six after a bad night, an arthritic pain in my left hip kept me awake, but after a trip to the toilet, I meditate, relax my body and manage to sleep for an hour until eight. Outside the sky is dull and overcast, rain is forecast for most of the day, but it is dry at the moment. I breakfast on smoked salmon and cream cheese on Ryvita, Norman is disappointed that no full English breakfast is on offer and refuses to eat his dog food, even though I mix it with Bolognese sauce and warm it in the microwave. I take my coffee into the Garden Room and listen to the news, before taking an anti-inflammatory tablet and then setting off for Cherry around nine thirty. It is spitting with rain when we arrive, but I have a summer waterproof jacket and an umbrella, so we go to the Westwood as usual. It is raining as we set off, but we are soon in the shelter of the woods, and the rain eases as we emerge onto the common, the wind and the weather are blowing in from the southwest. The respite is short and the rain soon resumes with more vigour, so I put up my umbrella as we make our way towards Black Mill. Then quite suddenly it stops again. We arrive back in Cherry at eleven and seeing that it is dry, I get my gardening tools and little folding stool out of the boot of my car and weed the rear flower beds until midday. The rain holds off, and it is still dry when I arrive at the leisure centre, after having deposited Normy back at the bungalow. A life saving class is just finishing as I enter the water and so I enjoy the luxury of a clear lane. I have decided to avoid breaststroke, as the jarring of the powerful leg kick will aggravate the inflammation in my hip. As a consequence, I start out with a steady 400m backstroke to warm up and follow this with 200m butterfly, broken into eight single lengths with a fifteen second rest between repetitions. Butterfly requires a delicate balance of keeping the body low to the water, in order to minimise drag, and also raising the chin sufficiently above the surface to be able to breathe. It is impossible to do this if the body is too tired and there is no point in practising bad technique. After the fly, I swim 400m freestyle and soon settle into an easy rhythm of thirteen strokes to the length, tumbling into a long glide before resuming stroke. When this is finished I repeat the butterfly section, with a further eight lengths and then have time to warm down, with 200m easy backstroke followed by an even easier 200m freestyle. Whilst showering I realise that I am starting to feel good again, but know from experience, that it will take as long to regain my former condition as the time I have been out of the water. In short another three weeks, health permitting. After tea and some oaties in the cafe, I drive home arriving about two thirty, Norman is in the garden pottering about amongst the rhubarb. This prompts me to consider stewing some in the slow cooker with some artificial sweetener as a desert. Perhaps tomorrow! It starts to rain and to compensate for an unsettled night, I meditate and then sleep until four thirty. It is still raining when I get up, feeling rather hungry, and decide to make some fish fingers, chips and peas for dinner. I notice that Norman's bowl is empty, so he must have changed his mind about the dog food, nevertheless I cook enough fish fingers to feed the pair of us. Such a simple yet satisfying meal and so easy to cook. I pop the chips and fingers onto a baking tray and stick them in the oven for fifteen minutes and whilst they are cooking stick some frozen garden peas in the microwave. The dog and I both clear our plates and then he sits on my knee while I drink tea and do a little admin in my iPad. The rain stops around six and the sky clears to make a pleasant evening, we walk past the bridge and through "almost straight wood" before making our way back to the bridge along the drain. Norman is getting fitter, his coat is glossy and his tail now wags when he sees that I have his lead. We get back for eight, I give him a few biscuits and then warm up some tea in the microwave and take the last four oaties into the Garden Room. Inwill need to make another batch tomorrow. After we have had our snack, Norman settles on my knee whilst I read Andres Neumann's "traveller of the century", until bedtime. My only criticism of the book is with it's translation, it strikes me that because Neumann is of Argentinian and German descent, and the book is located in Germany, it could have done with a translator who is fluent in three languages. As it is, a lot of the German street names have been unnecessarily translated into English, making the narrative a little clunky. Notwithstanding, it is a fine book for so young an author, and daring in his willingness to tackle some weighty issues. I like books that make you think and particularly those that challenge my cosy preconceptions. To bed around eleven.