Sartre in a swimming pool
Not only was it a Friday, but it was a beautiful morning and I felt happy and relaxed going into agency. Quite a bit of work on my plate at the moment but that's fine. Managed to have my fourth swim of the week at lunchtime.
At the end of my swim I just floated in the pool for a few minutes, feeling good and staring up at the light streaming through a couple of trees outside. Increasingly, I'm getting stolen moments of happiness like this.
In the pool I decided I am getting the psychological reward from having taken my decision to leave the agency. For better or worse my life feels in my own hands again, and mentally that is a far healthier way of living. I'm with Sartre and his buddies on this one. When you take a decision, you prove to yourself that you are alive.
After work I met Bob in the West End. Good to catch up with the old Mad Dog. We lurked happily in Soho in The Nellie Dean and forked down a curry afterwards, leaving no stone unturned in our conversation. Eventually I heard the call of the seagull.
Later, a member of the railway staff woke me up in the train in Brighton. Always a curious feeling walking down an empty platform from an empty train. And then merciful bed.
Not only was it a Friday, but it was a beautiful morning and I felt happy and relaxed going into agency. Quite a bit of work on my plate at the moment but that's fine. Managed to have my fourth swim of the week at lunchtime.
At the end of my swim I just floated in the pool for a few minutes, feeling good and staring up at the light streaming through a couple of trees outside. Increasingly, I'm getting stolen moments of happiness like this.
In the pool I decided I am getting the psychological reward from having taken my decision to leave the agency. For better or worse my life feels in my own hands again, and mentally that is a far healthier way of living. I'm with Sartre and his buddies on this one. When you take a decision, you prove to yourself that you are alive.
After work I met Bob in the West End. Good to catch up with the old Mad Dog. We lurked happily in Soho in The Nellie Dean and forked down a curry afterwards, leaving no stone unturned in our conversation. Eventually I heard the call of the seagull.
Later, a member of the railway staff woke me up in the train in Brighton. Always a curious feeling walking down an empty platform from an empty train. And then merciful bed.
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