I'd gone to bed the night before with plans to reintegrate the morning walk into the daily routine, just as a one-off for the trip, you understand, preparatory to a regular resumption when I'm back in Bowen on Friday morning.
The dawn's early light, as I gazed out through the day curtains at a battleship grey vista with significant drizzle, didn't look overly promising in tat department, and I rolled over with intentions of snatching a bit more slumber.
It didn't quite work out that way though.
The Nephew was required at work early ism, so I was always going to be up and about around the same time. I rolled over with my back to the window, ignoring external considerations, and by the time I heard signs of movement elsewhere in the Unit things had taken a turn for the better.
The result was that I wasn't out as early as I might have been, and the humidity was up through the roof, so the extensive ramble around the Broadwater Parklands wasn't quite as extensive as planned.
I headed towards the jetty first up, and found it barricaded off for a film shoot that hadn't quite started that early, and with that option ruled out decided to head north for a bit. A bit took me past the redevelopment at the aquatic centre, presumably part of the preparations for the Commonwealth Games, along to the two kilometre marking on the footpath. That's two kilometres from a starting point at the bridge across the river that flows into The Broadwater, and under other circumstances the plan would have been to double back to the starting point, resulting in a four kilometre walk.
I turned back, looped through the mangrove precinct, dodging puddles as I went, headed past the jetty and the Anzac memorial before deciding enough was enough around the five hundred metre mark.
Blame the humidity for that one, folks.
In any case, once I made my back to The Unit I had a couple of hundred metres to go to track down something for breakfast, soI probably ended up getting closer to the four kilometres than you might have thought.
The rest of the morning was almost enough to finish knocking over Death in Florence, and I broke for lunch with things rushing towards a rather nasty denouement. There was, however, nothing nasty about lunch, a melange of the rest of a packet of bacon rashers, button, Swiss brown and oyster mushrooms, tomato paste, white wine and just a touch of chilli.
There was enough left to pad out the other leftovers for dinner, and once I'd finished Death in Florence a bit more travelogue catchup, and an incursion into Geoffrey Robertson's Dreaming Too Loud took me up towards the point where dinner became an important consideration.
The Nephew dropped by in the late afternoon, killing time before a two-hour lecture appointment at six, so he was never going to be a starter for dinner at a reasonable hour. But there was plenty left over from the past couple of days, and that's what we have microwaves for, isn't it?