Nutrition. The word I use to lend an air of respectability to my eating habits.
Let me put it out there: I like food. A lot. I'm particularly fond of bacon baps, lasagne a decent burger, steak, actually almost all foods that are not green. I strongly suspect that my South African genes carry within them the Khoisan compulsion to gorge when the going's good in anticipation of lean times. Problem is that with a Tesco's just down the road, the lean times never come. This rather inconvenient fact doesn't get in the way of my enjoyment of eating, and more eating. The result is, rather obviously, my expanding waistline. I'd like to blame it on the ageing process, but in all good conscience I have to recognise that the extent of our grocery bill might have something to do with it.
Which is why, in some kind of macabre way, I quite like all this training. It not only allows me to indulge in my food fetish, but in fact encourages me to positively wallow in the pleasure of guilt- free and continuous dining.
But wait, there's more. Because I need to pad myself against the cold, I HAVE TO, repeat HAVE TO, eat carbs. Yes carbs, that currently much maligned food group that's getting a bit of a bashing on the dietary front in the media. Pork pies, hamburgers, pastries and pudding.
I am a happy man.
Wayne likes pork pies and Guinness. He likes routine and predictability. He loves his family. He's 40+, short(ish), balding and battling with waistline expansion. He's been known to occasionally play a good round of golf, likes to tinker with 'stuff' and has rescued a group of friends from the African wild by fixing a Land Rover with a jellybaby.
He's never been a great fan of physical exertion. In short (apart from the jellybaby incident), Wayne is an ordinary person. And he's about to do something really amazingly, astoundingly and astonishingly extra-ordinary. He's going to swim the the treacherous, never-been-swum-before channel between Kintyre (Scotland) and Ballycastle (Ireland). For charity. This is his story.