A writer's gym

He wakes up early, when it's still dark, determined to visit his gym. Light breaks through the horizon when he leaves his tower block at 7am.

He takes East London's canals, following the coots and cyclists down the litter-strewn paths. The foxes must have had a wild party the previous night.

He arrives at the Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park: his gym is a solid copper box surrounded by cranes, a beckoning giant in the distance.

He carries everything on his self – protein shake, gym clothes, toiletries, towel, shoes, work clothes, weight lifting gloves, iPhone, earphones – everything but his membership card.