Starting to warm up, we changed quickly and talked briefly to the swimmers huddled around us, savouring the last traces of shared body heat. After that, it was a short walk across a footpath to the edge of Serpentine Lake. Nick was wearing a pair of Gumbies (an Australian brand of swim-slippers) which I eyed enviously as we dumped our towels on a nearby bench. Then we all peered out at the buoyed swimming area together.

A lady hopped excitedly as she exited the lake. Suddenly she turned and climbed back up onto the jetty – “Oh, it’s quite addictive isn’t it?” she grinned as she lowered herself in for a second plunge.

The three of us walked up onto the jetty and formed a line near the ladder. Arms began to swing. Eyes fixed on the black murk. I tried to remember what 5C water felt like. It had been almost a month sine Calum and I swam at Brockwell Lido together. And that was a degree warmer!

One by one we took Nick’s lead, pinned our arms back and hopped down into the bracing shallows. The cold gripped my chest. My breathing quickened. It was pretty much impossible to think of anything in that moment – outside your own sinew-tightening reaction. The cold stung my fingertips. I felt the burn in my chest. The next breath caught in my throat. I spluttered a little. Before I could really catch my breath the other two were off.

Members are allowed to swim outside the buoyed confines of the lido. So, we followed Nick as he dove under the rope and guided us out into roving swan and geese territory – home to a ruthless Swan Corleone, no doubt. Later, Nick recounted his run-in with a swan during one of his unratified Ice Miles. Slightly disorientated, his leading arm gently struck the swan’s wing. If it had been with its cygnets he might’ve needed to fend off a gruelling, orange-beaked onslaught – swans are known to drown small dogs under their wings. Luckily for him, the swan shrugged him off, ruffled its feathers and paddled in the opposite direction. We all agreed swan attacks were about the worst disruption you could have in the delirium of an Ice Mile attempt. It’s also one of the more dangerous encounters you can have with wildlife, in British waters. That is if you disregard tales of menacing pike, Cornish great white sharks, or Channel Island makos. It was definitely favourable to Nick’s natural backyard – home to the many-toothed denizens of Australia.

Further out, we found space to spread apart in the cold lake. I kept to Nick’s right as we headed along the bank. A light breeze strafed the surface. Our hands whipped up bubbling eddies. Feet all kicked in unison, marking our tracks. While the greenish murk deepened and pale objects dimmed on the sinking lakebed. Breathing to my left, as I always do, I caught glimpses of Nick and Calum, suspended on the sunlit surface. I could feel the cost of that past month, with only a few shorter stints of conditioning. The blubbery toll of Christmas hung loose over my tied shorts. My breathing was still laboured as well. I extended my hand and clenched what felt like frozen slush between my fingers. I was sure my hands had started to claw up. Yet we kept our heads down – separate in our goggled worlds, surely united in a vague sense of dislocation and survival.