I was playing football again at lunch with the guys at work. I'm slightly less dead this time around than last time, despite feeling the familiar copper taste of blood in my mouth during play (which was probably my imagination), and wanting to cough my guts up right now. At least I didn't have to spend half the time in goal to prevent myself from having a heart attack. My recovery rate has improved somewhat, I think.
Still, no pain, no gain - or in my case, anti-gain, since I want to lose a little more weight. Since Fleur and I have started cutting out a lot of the meat we eat, (and I've started drinking a lot less) I've dropped half a stone in a little over two months, which is good, steady progress, if not spectacular weight loss. Another stone will get me down to a much more healthy 13.5 stone (considering I was close to 16 stone at the turn of the year, I'm already well on the way).
Other than the coughing, which is a remnant of last week's chest infection, I feel great, and really enjoyed playing, despite the fact I consistently couldn't hit the side of a barn door once I got into the final third of the pitch.
Oh well, practice makes perfect I suppose.