Hampstead Heath Mens' Pond

(The following was written before Christmas and I hoped to conclude it with another swimming expedition on Christmas Day but when we arrived at noon the pond was inexplicably closed. Liverpool, of course, drew 1 - 1 at the Emirates.)

We were about to set off with heavy hearts to Waitrose with a huge festive list drawn up by my wife from the absolute authority of her sickbed (birdflu - much like manflu only "much, much worse").

I suddenly found myself saying to my son 'are you up for a swim on the Heath?' A tentative 'yes' later and we were entering the almost deserted concrete compound of the mens' pond on Hampstead Heath (one affable regular - swims every day) and looking for the dryest spot in the 40 watt sunlight.

According to the blackboard the water temperature was 4'C. The voices of caution clamoured in my head urging retreat - "you're 57, out of condition, you'll die etc... " luckily a more primal voice prevailed and I found myself descending the ladder off the jetty into water that smoked and felt like liquid fire. Not a soul in sight. The lifeguard ensconced in his hut, door closed... a single cormorant low in the water - and me somehow free of the ladder, head held high, describing a modest circle in the leaden water then back up the ladder - trying desperately to conceal unseemly haste - and onto the coconut matting of the jetty practically screaming with pain.

Considerations of pride and loss of face vanquished by the overwhelming sensations and alleviated only by the schadenfreude of watching my son going through the same ordeal. About 30 seconds later I felt warm and absolutely at ease. So much so that I dived in, swam a little further... then out. My son did the same. Suddenly the matting felt warm underfoot and my whole body felt lit from within.

We dried off, dressed and had a vigorous walk over to Parliament hill to exorcise the last vestiges of cold and it seemed that the whole of London was aglow. Scarves, dogs, parakeets, sparrowhawks, kites, smiling women... then back to the sanctuary of the car and off to Waitrose on Holloway road... only to run into the build-up for the Liverpool match around the Emirates.

We took the sensible course, abandoned the shopping expedition and returned home empty-handed to wolf down free-range eggs, bacon and potato cakes with big mugs of tea.
Luckily, I've not been held to account yet 'cause Sue's still asleep, so I'm about to slip out and watch the match in the hostile environs of the Arsenal Tavern - "needs must.." etc.

But at this moment I feel like every cell in my body and soul is alive.

I've done this before around this time of the year; once to escape the hemmed-inness of Christmas Day, and it never fails to banish the blandness and invigorate the soul. I must remember this next year. Waitrose can wait till tomorrow. Now, hopefully, I'm about to see whining wenger's finest controversially beaten in a contentious and visceral battle.

Peace to all men