I console myself by rubbing myself up against L. As I don't get told to 'go to sleep' I push my luck a little and it pays off. So, I can’t complain, it all turned out rather well in the end. Perhaps she was having the same dream.
I take the bus into work. The journey was good, even though a police car had parked half in and half out of the road works simply because someone had broken down in the middle of them. The person had managed to get their car through the cones and was therefore not blocking the road, so the policeman obviously thought he’d do the blocking for them.
L reports that the young up and coming tri-athlete has obviously asked the girlie in pink for a second date because they were out running again. The girlie was putting her hair up as she was running. As you do. He wasn't wearing a tri t-shirt, probably too embarrassed to wear his Erewash ‘novice’ one.
L's tells me all this as she is tucking into Grasmere Gingerbread while I’m snacking on grapes. Suppose I should feel virtuous rather than hard done by.
The kettle packs up a work, so I don't even get an afternoon hot drink to go with my grapes.
After work we drive up to Sheffield for a swim in the International Competition Pool at Ponds Forge. Even Daughter comes with us, and Doggo of course. It's a full-length 50m pool. Nottingham doesn't have one despite the fact they keep saying they're going to build one. Their swimming etiquette says that customers must be able to swim 100m unaided, without stopping. Sounds like a challenge.
When we eventually find it, the signposting isn't great, we get lost both outside and again inside the complex. Doggo as usual gets to guard the car but it's not a great experience for him as it's an indoor one. Nothing to look at but concrete walls.
The swimming clubs have taken over five of the eight lanes; we mortals have the other three. The fast lane is a definite psycho only lane. I try it but soon downgrade myself to the medium lane. Even here it's at times dog eat dog, a woman kicks me in the face, twice, and she's not even in my lane. People should at least be able to keep their limbs within the lane they're supposed to be swimming in. That should be in the etiquette.
L points out to me a girl in one of the swimming clubs who is wearing comedy shorts. L tells me that these are called drag pants, which is a new one on me. She says that they're a training aid; it's supposed to make swimming harder on the legs. Sounds like a bit of a wheeze to me. That's probably what the boys in the club told the girl, they've really just weighed her down because she's a faster swimmer than they are. A clever tactic. Now if only I can figure out a way of getting all my female opponents in my triathlons to wear them, I'd have the perfect strategy.
The whole experience is too much for Daughter, she's creased and when we get home, she collapses on her bed without any tea. Shame the pool isn’t nearer, if we could take her there twice a week, we'd soon get her fit.
I cook up a chilli and catch up on the Tour de France. After the big crash yesterday Tomas Vaitkus pulls out having broken his thumb in five places. Ouch. Can you imagine? Does a thumb even have five places to break? Fred Rodriguez was luckier, he had expected to pull out with a broken collarbone, but he'd forgotten that it had been surgically replaced with a titanium plate after an earlier accident, meaning that, technically, he no longer had a collarbone to break. Just slipped his mind obviously. Mark Cavendish stays upright and comes in ninth.
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