Monday
My alarm blared at 5am. It blared again 30 minutes later. Time to get up. An hour later I was at the station waiting for the 6.31 to Victoria. This is daily but it's worth it even when London isn't hosting the Olympic Games for the first time since 1948.
'Only four carriages? That's ridiculous," a commuter shrieked. The harbinger of doom on the first weekday of the Olympics, she is proven wrong. It's eight. The tube journey into Stratford is also serene and swift.
Although I had done a reconnaissance of the Olympic Park thrice, walking into Stratford's landmark had a first day of school feel about it. Surrounded by tourists and families, it boasts a theme park vibe too. Thorpe Park minus the nastiness.
I set up camp at the ginormous media centre to plan out my first Olympics day. It was a slow start, filing some essential copy and honing the site ahead of Tom Daley and Peter Waterfield's dive, but keeping the page fresh and engaging is critical.
My first event was indeed Daley and Waterfield diving. Foolishly I walked to the aquatic centre. My boss, Tottenham Court Road almanac Stephen Hull, text me asking for some water. By the time I sat beside him in the press tribune, it was nearly half-drunk.
After Daley and Waterfield's loss it was back to the media centre. Again we foolishly walked. We passed several press members who had caved in and bought fast food goods. We resisted.
Following some writing it was the bus back to the aquatic centre and the swimming. We had to have tickets for the evening's finals, and both were dutifully collected by yours truly. Alas I handed Hull the tabled ticket whereas I slummed it down below, putting the lap in laptop.
Hull texted saying he had got into an argument with a French woman over the monitor. You can't leave him alone.
Tuesday
Wimbledon. Centre Court. Having never been before this was a tremendous thrill, even if, due to advertising regulations, Pimms wasn't being served. You can still munch on strawberries and cream though.
Although I planned to stay just for Andy Murray's victory over Jarkko Nieminen, I enjoyed the scenery so much I watched Novak Djokovic annihilate Andy Roddick before witnessing the plucky Laura Roberts yield to Maria Sharapova in the first set. I did do work too.
Hull texts claiming the Mirror's Oliver Holt is stalking him. He's hovered close to our associate editor at the opening ceremony and now the diving.
Wednesday
Horse Guards Parade. The beach volleyball event is such a bash you lose sight of the fact that the competitors are sportsmen competing for a gold medal. Despite the Mexican Waves, songs during intervals and a cheesy DJ, it's great fun and there's escapism in the scenery if you're that miserable you can't enjoy the sport.
Aloha
Whitehall may be my favourite place in London though. The walk from Green Park takes in Pall Mall, the post-Great Fire of London architecture and, of course, the cordoned-off Mall, where Buckingham Palace was photographed avidly in the distance by Royal enthusiasts.
From the press tribunes' vantage point at the beach bash, the Shard, Parliament and the London Eye all poke up above the skyline. Seb Coe has provided the illusion the Empire has been resurrected.
The downside was that it rained. Plastic covers were unfurled, as I and my MacBook shielded from the pesky clouds above, knotting my posture awkwardly.
Hull gets in touch. Holt's nearby.
Thursday
This field-work is starting to catch up now. The majority of the day is spent at the media centre working and advising on innovative content with our news team in the office. Apparently it's meant to be a quiet day for the Brits at the Olympics...
Gemma Gibson applies the adrenaline shot with as much of a thump felt by her semi-final conquest. Applause filters round the centre from the British journalists as it soon becomes apparent how emotional a moment it is for the 25-year-old.
Hull is at the Velodrome but has gone dark. When he's back online he stresses just how packed it is in the press tribune. "Here Wiggo to the cycling" is my puntastic retort. He's unimpressed.
One of our female news team members suggested a blog-off between our American cousins in the morning. She's Australian, conveniently. Heralded as the live blog expert, I'm tasked with representing HuffPost UK during Team GB's water polo match with the US. It offers a chance to visit a new venue.
Inside it's packed to the rafters, although it's the least satisfying event witnessed yet. The US thump GB, which owes to the anti-climax admittedly, as news comes in of Sir Chris Hoy winning a fifth Olympic gold. Hull's witnessed Wiggins and Hoy add gloss to their Olympic careers in successive days. The swine. Holt's filing copy near to him.
Friday
Day one of track and field. The central line is part suspended; sandwiched in between Bethnal Green and Leytonstone? Stratford. Transport strikes!
Alas the Jubilee line to West Ham - via Hammersmith and City - eventually guided me to the Park after some faffing underground.
Stratford is more awe-inspiring than it looks. Unlike other stadiums such as Wembley, the Emirates and Old Trafford, no one is made to feel ostracised from the sporting spectacle. This is the heart of the Olympics and the privilege of covering the 30th Olympiad truly dawns on me.
Just in time, I arrive to see Jessica Ennis, roared on by tens of thousands of Brits, win the first of seven events in the women's heptathlon, breaking the British hurdles record in the process. I break from press box protocol to applaud her, although I won't be bringing any bunting along.
There's a five-hour gap between athletics sessions, so I return to the Media Centre and nab a ticket for the evening's swimming. Brit-wise, a lot's happening, but I'm hoping to see Becky Adlington win gold. I do some work before meeting my family, who have tickets for the evening's athletics, as well as a friend who is working for the OBC.
Take the bus to the Aquatics Centre. At one stop, an American asks the driver: "Is this the stadium?"
"No, it's the TV tower." She can see out the window it's not the stadium.
Unbeknownst to me, Michael Phelps is competing before Adlington. He wins his 17th gold and it's a treat to witness him gain his 21st Olympic medal.
I notice LeBron James in front of me and feel a bit starstruck. Not directly in front - I wouldn't be able to see. Then more flashing from cameras - it's Kobe Bryant. I shake his hand, which is bigger than my head.
Man mountains
Adlington finishes a disappointing third for bronze, Hull's on his day off but calls to say I've taken David Cameron's place as Team GB's curse. I have to go, Adlington's arrived at the mixed zone.
As I leave the Centre, word comes in Murray's beaten Djokovic in straight sets to reach the final. Instantaneously, I realise I will attend a Wimbledon-hosted final between Murray and Roger Federer before returning to Stratford in the evening to watch Usain Bolt in the 100m final. I could have skipped out of the Park.
I'm so lucky and so thankful. Chiefly to Hull.