Poolside Percy

Quick Saturday morning dip with GB. I'm feeling very alive after this morning's Parkrun. Not many bodies about this morning, said hello to an enthusiastic chap from The Swimmer who was leaving when we arrived. We both dived of the springboard this morning, followed by lots of laughter, lots of noise, I hope we didn't scare the ducks. Paddled around a bit then did some some exhibition diving. Great to be alive. I hope Palace stuff Arsenal today.

Highgate Ponds Saturday morning swim. I'm a little hungover. I'm quite elated 'cos I just ran a very respectable time at Parkrun. As I arrive on the jetty a happy chap informs that it's great to be alive. I'm in a rush this morning so I waste no time in getting in. I swim round the nearest lifebuoy and swim breaststroke back to the jetty. The water is cold and makes my back tingle and my forearms numb. I promised I'd go and watch my nephew's swimming lesson near Tufnell Park. We had breakfast after at the Workman's Cafe in Archway. It's been a proper North London morning. He's was right you know, it is great to be alive.

Thursday morning pre-work swim. It's a lovely morning. Scores on the doors says 13 out and 11 in. As I arrive the late rising sun is tenderly caressing the northern side of the pool. Looks bloody freezing. No messing about this morning, straight in, well almost. Set myself a target of 5 lengths. I splashed and waded up and down the pool waiting for the endorphins or warmth to arrive. I ended up doing 10 lengths. Happy that I made the effort. Will return soon. I think it's easier to acclimatise when the temperature is going up rather than down.

It was one of those late summer Saturday mornings. I sat in Hampstead thinking I ate too much Mexican food last night, I'm just glad I didn't touch the tequila. You can feel the enthusiasm of the other Swimmers, you hear it from the lips of the ironman priest himself. It's The Swimmer London: The Return, an aquatic odyssey through the sunny morning streets and swimming spots of my beloved London. Three and a half hours, four swims and 13 miles later I run huffing and puffing through the gates of Brockwell Park, chafed but chuffed that I've completed another Swimmer. Nobody does it better Katie at Entirely surrounded by water has written the full match report Short film from @PeterSpringett Watch the original film watch the full 1968 film starring Burt Lancaster for free online Read the short story John Cheever - The Swimmer That could be me diving off the springboard at Highgate Men's Pond. Special mentions to Jonathan and Will,

Water temp: 14 degrees How cold is it this morning? According to the Lido thermometer it's nine out and 14 in. I usually get changed poolside but it's so cold that I seek shelter from the wind and huddle in a changing room cubicle. I am reviewing the situation. I spend ages reviewing the situation from the warmth and security of my cubicle. It's a bit late to reconsider, probably too late to reconsider as I lower myself down the ladder in to the comparative warmth of the pool. What happened between the changing the rooms and the pool is anybody's guess, I don't recall making any conscious decisions Whatever, the water is not as cold as I feared, it's actually very nice, not balmy tropical but definitely swimmable. There's not many people around this morning, but people say hello to each other, I guess it's a collective mental state thing, we are driven by unconscious psychic forces. I set myself a target of five lengths, why five? I always do even

Water temp: 16 degrees 'Can you lend me £50 'til I get my memory back?' quipped a hungover regular. Wednesday morning pre - work swim. The sun sort of poked it's yellow snotty nose out from underneath it's grey cloudy duvet. Eight-thirty in the morning and there's hardly a soul here. I waste lots of time talking codshit to strangers before eventually get my act together and launch myself head-first in to the pool. My shoulder is killing me, I can't for the life of me work out why until I remember yesterday's ladder incident. Undeterred, I swim 16 strong, hero lengths, one for each degree. I spot the famous actor bloke, I wonder if he has a sigil of a golden lion on his crimson trunks.

  GF is this week's guest blogger Be the guest blogger he said, so here I am, on a beautiful Sunday morning in October, on the back of a Vespa, riding Quadrophenia-style through London in the direction of Charlton in search of adventure. We wave at the tourists as we cross Tower Bridge - we live here you know, I feel like shouting. Finally we are in Blackheath, a mile or so more and we turn into the road which is home to Charlton Lido in the few weeks before it closes for refurbishment. I don't do the cold swimming, so it is heated to 25 degrees and, even the posh portaloos can't dampen the holiday feeling of the day. Changing rooms at the side of the pool have a welcome plastic roof through which the unexpected sun warms the concrete floor. Water still seems cold to me as I dangle a toe, but once we dive in and start swimming suddenly all seems right with the world and the 50 metre lengths seem to glide by in the serene atmosphere. We eschew the lanes for a free