I have absolutely no one to blame but myself. And yet, I reserve the right to have a jolly good moan about it.

Right now, my lower back feels like a rusty hinge desperately begging for WD-40, and the ache is so deep it might be touching my soul. I’ve swallowed enough paracetamol to sedate a small pony, just to take the vicious edge off. Why the internal rebellion? Because I had the audacity to enjoy myself yesterday.

It started innocently enough: a pleasant, crisp Sunday with the brother and sister-in-law, walking into and around the fair city of Carlisle. The agenda was simple: a nice walk into town, a little potter around the shops, and a gentle stroll back. What it became was a fitness challenge worthy of an Olympic qualifier.

I checked my phone later, fully expecting a minor bump in my usual couch-to-fridge step count. Instead, I saw a number that looked suspiciously like a typo. My step count was four times my normal level, and more than double what I’d rack up on an “active” day. My body is currently staging a quiet, painful protest, demanding to know who signed it up for an unauthorised half-marathon around Cumbria.

To cap off the saga of exertion, my 19-year-old youngest and oldest foster kid joined the expedition in the city centre. The youngest, God bless him, arrived looking like he’d been caught mid-toilet-training emergency. Nope. It was just an entire bottle of bright orange Iron Brew that had staged a full-scale jailbreak inside his hoodie pocket, turning the fabric into a sticky, carbonated canvas. Nothing screams ‘urban adventure’ like a fully grown adult walking around Carlisle with a sticky, fizzy stain that screams public urination, caused by the famously aggressive national soft drink.

The current agony is proper, I tell you. The stupidity of not knowing my own limits is palpable. But here’s the kicker, the true punchline:

I bloody loved every single second of it.

Sometimes, the price of a perfect day in a historic city is a two-day recovery period and the quiet contemplation of your own physical limitations. My back is broken, my feet are knackered, and my step goal is ruined for the rest of the week… but that, my friends, is the Art of Stupidity. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find the nearest soft surface and possibly a full-time carer.