When I used to work in the City, I was fond of saying that I was always looking for an extra 24 hours in the week. Preferably, 24 hours to which no one else had access. I searched in vain. My solution was to get into the office, well before everyone else, so that I could have a couple of hours to order my thoughts and plan my day.
Nowadays, the issue is rarely as pressing and I get up when I feel like it. The hour tends to be dictated by the seasons, rather than the alarm: later in the winter, earlier in the summer. I have a full agenda today so, borrowing from one of my old practices, I got up at 06:00 and spent 45 minutes on the home trainer, pedalling away on alternate legs. I’m now ploughing through the paperwork for this afternoon’s meetings at the club. Today we have the monthly meeting of the Kivilev Committee followed by the monthly club meeting.
Unfortunately, the Treasurer is experiencing a few medical problems, and has been hors combat, so I need to drop by her place to pick up the club’s books, reconcile them and prepare the accounts. I haven’t done this for the last few months and we’re due an audit check shortly. Yes, the local Town Hall sends someone to make sure we haven’t been wasting their money on wine, women and song.
Yesterday, I popped into my LBS to have my new Shimano shoes fitted only to discover that the owner had had an accident that morning. He’d been out training on his time-trial bike, a Trek which closely resembles a stealth bomber, and had slipped under the radar of a car exiting the Citroen garage at speed. Result, a broken left collar-bone, the injury of choice for most cyclists. Fortunately, his trusty assistant was on hand to open the shop.
I went to my LBS en route to Nice to attend one of the Federation meetings for our Directeur Sportif, and collect the licences I’d most recently registered. After my abortive attempts to find a parking space close to the meeting venue last time I had attended, I decided to park in the centre and hop on the tram for the necessary couple of stops. While I rather enjoy investigating new areas of Nice, I prefer to do so when the shops are open. Not when they are frustratingly shuttered.
This morning I have the all important monthly meeting with my nutritionist. I’ve just gotten on the scales to check that my weight is still moving in the right direction: downwards. It is. I’m pretty pleased that I’m managing to survive what I first thought would be a fairly Draconian regime but I haven’t missed cheese, butter and cream as much as I believed I would.