Summertime, and the living is...

28 degrees in London. The last few days have seen Summer stride fashionably late into Britain's capital, and despite the usual Tube warnings of 50 degree heat in the tunnels beneath the streets, the days are passing in dreamlike bliss. (London summers are great precisely because they're short: the brief flowering of yellow in the skies is revered, since it's never long enough to forget the grey untuned-TV-screen overhead eight months of the year.)

The Windsor Triathlon yesterday went brilliantly: I felt relaxed and unhurried, and just hit a comfortable pace in the river, road and streets, enjoyed just 'getting round' without being in a rush. Despite a thrumming thigh on the final lap of the run section - a cramp just goading me to tense up so it can pounce - I jogged across the line around 10:45am, plenty of time to head home for some protein and an afternoon nap over the Sunday Times. Simple pleasures.

First race of the season, and probably my slowest time too - but triathlon's not the driving force of my life, just a pleasant backbone to keep in shape, and my body's thanking me for it. Triathlong just makes you feel like a superhero. Your body feels like a single muscle; you can tame any environment, handle any machine, cover any distance. It's the greatest sport in the world.

Today I woke early, and hit my desk downstairs: more work than ever, but fewer in-office demands, which means I can churn out creative from home. Breezes clack my wooden blinds as the sun scorches the terrace above over breakfast. Home may be a unimaginative brick box south of the river, but in the 7am sun with a bagel and smoothie, I feel the same satisfaction as anyone in a penthouse on Fifth Avenue. (Okay, maybe a bit less.)

And the summer's got more of the same in store. Two months of long warm evenings, of chilled wine and sandwiches that make a meal, of Sunday triathlons and new ideas before my solo expedition to the Land of the Pharaohs. Life is good.