As hinted at a little while backalong, I’ve been dragged screaming out of retirement - sort of - to ghost-write the autobiography of a guy who made it all the way to the top as a Premier League footballer. (No, not Bruce Rioch.)
Well, football is my passion after all, and it will help swell the Cancer Research coffers as per usual.
The book’s working title is LIVING THE DREAM.
I thought of this as I set off from home nearly two hours ago. Six or seven minutes’ walk from my home to Falmouth seafront . . . to rendezvous at Castle Beach . . . for a quality-time sea swim with my daughter Lisa . . . with yet another blindingly brilliant sunrise over the bay, the crystal-clear sea lapping right up against the wall, high-tide.
I thought . . . I’m in my eighth decade, and this is the way I get to start my day. (Quite a few times already this year, actually.)
And it doesn’t cost me a penny.
I thought . . . yes, I would like to have been a Premier League footballer, but if THIS isn’t living the dream, I don’t know what is. (Okay, I admit I could do with a Premier League player’s money, too, but I don’t want blood.)
There were already a few like-minded souls in the vicinity – the regular walkers, a yogi doing her thing on the slope down to the water, and others doing their physical jerks along the mini-prom before taking the plunge.
As we got changed afterwards, I thought Lisa was a bit quieter than usual and I asked if everything was all right.
“Yes,” she replied, “I’m just in a bit more of a hurry than usual; I want to get to the wedding on time.”
I left her walking over to the eastern end, where she was going to park herself on the rocks, open up her laptop (or could have been phone, not sure) - and watch one of her best mates getting married in Germany, on Zoom!
Here endeth one more little snapshot of life
as we currently know it, via Covid and high-tech
