Summers are a time for enjoyment and relaxation in the sunshine, stretching out on your back and watching the clouds scud purposefully by. The only exertion should be to refil your glass with ice-cold juice and maybe to turn over on your front to get more comfortable in the grass.

In no way whatsoever did a shouting school teacher figure in this mental oasis to force me back to brutal reality. “Fifteen hundred metres? Isn’t that, like, a really long way to run? Can’t I just lie here for just a little longer?”

I wasn’t enjoying my position any more on the burning blue rubber of the high-jump matress, but I knew that this was only a small discomfort when compared to a k-and-a-half of pain. At that age, any distance longer than a football pitch was at least a mile.

I can smile at that easily, now. Then, such activities seemed rather pointless and were just ‘things-that-had-to-be-done-so-as-not-to-be-shouted-at’. Now, years older and wiser, I do them for a reason.

However, this kind of enjoyment is something to be savoured afterwards – not during.