Sink Or Swim

So...
Easter. A festival combining heat, chocolate and the story of a man being nailed to a tree for saying how cool it would be to be nice to each other for a change, to paraphrase Douglas Adams. Goody.

In my case, with Easter merging into the Royal Wedding, I've got 11 days at home. Ordinarily, this is where my bitch-fest would come in, about how I'm gonna have to work extra hard at home to make up for not walking, but we all know I'm not walking any damn where at the minute anyway - wretched blisters - apparently there are more of them now. So am just gonna have to pedal my ass off.

Maybe.

I miss swimming.

I discovered this last weekend, when in rock and roll Bognor Regis, we had the luxury of an indoor swimming pool to faff around in. Only managed to make it there for one session, sadly, but while we were there, it was great. One thing though became patently obvious.

“Your shape’s changing,” said d, putting it into words. “All the biking you’re doing is strengthening up your legs. Not doing a thing for your man-breasts though.”

She’s right. I’m developing thighs like a carthorse, but I still have flabby, weedy nerd-arms, and tits like Jordan if Jordan were a hairy transsexual...which I’m happy to believe she isn’t... for now.

Swimming regularly would probably help with this disparity, but I have an issue with public pools. Comes of growing up as a fat fuck in the Welsh Valleys, where man-boys roam the streets in packs, looking for people to pick on. I used to go swimming back home, on my own (only child mentality of course – you go on your own or you don’t tend to go). I got picked on for being ‘the boy with tits’ by the gangs, and then shouted at by the lifeguards when I determined to wear a dark T-shirt into the pool to save me from the gangs. I have, at present, very little confidence that East London man-boy gangs are any more compassionate to the fat fucks in their midst, and of course these days, they’re properly armed (I think it’s a gang rule or something). Going swimming again on a regular basis would be great, but I’m not prepared to die for the pleasure!

Maybe it’s a ‘lone fat-fuck’ thing. Inspired by that thought, I asked d if she’d be interested in going swimming with me in a public pool in East London (she’s part-fish, I’ve discovered, entirely in her element in the water).

“With...kids?” she asked. “Eww...I know what kids do in swimming pools. I was a kid myself once...”

I put on my puppy-dog eyes. “Ohhh, if you really want to go swimming regularly, sure, I’ll go with you honey,” she said. So yay – that’ll be swimming added to the mix at some point in the near future.

Every possibility I’ll still get killed though – I have just as little sense of direction in the water as I do on land, apparently. Swimming diagonally – how come that’s not in the Olympics, eh? I'll tell you how come? Cos it's freakin' stupid, that's how...

So - pedalling like a lunatic, swimming at some point when it's possible (not sure what chlorine would do to icky sticky red blisters, or even if I'm supposed to to a public pool with 'em). Also, on Saturday, am fairly well resolved to buying some dumb bells. Anything I can add to the mix for now, I'm adding, cos I don't know when I'll be clear to do proper walking again. And if I'm honest, I've been eating too much fast food this week - had pizza yesterday and Chinese tonight, so am looking at a chunky weight gain come Tuesday unless I start doing something now. 

Annnnd we're back on the bike.

Bloods this morning - 5.3, so again, clearly the comparative lack of exercise isn't affecting my blood.

Everything else of course, but not my blood.