A beautiful Sunday morning, and I vault out of bed, holding myself to my vow of acting like a proper grown-up and attending Reading's Remembrance Day parade.
Then, I collapsed in a heap of howling agony, bright painful lights flashing in my head, completely forgetting that the ankle I injured over two months ago hasn't even begun to heal.
But am I giving up? No, I am not. I get my old man's walking stick out of the back of my car, and limp, wincing, over to the war memorial to remember those who gave their lives so that - for example - people like me can sit here and write this rubbish.
Taking up my place in an impressive crowd, I become aware that I am getting sympathetic looks from a number of attendees. And old boy with service beret, blazer and LOADS of medals nudges me:
"Where d'you get it, son?"Awkward, and I feel a bit of a fraud.
"Your leg. Where d'you get it?"
"I fell over."
"I fell over on the Thames footpath, following the David Walliams charity swim."
The next person who asks, I decide, will be told that I was the second man on the balcony at the Iranian Embassy Siege.
Luckily, nobody else asks, and I hobble home.
Thank you, old bloke with medals, for talking to me. And thank you, old bloke with medals, and those who didn't get to grow old, for your sacrifice.