Gertsamtkunstwerk

Making a splash at the Queen Mum

There's a minor crisis in swimming local to me at the moment. It's unfortunate that pending brand new spangly swimming pools in both Clapham and Streatham, there are no public swimming pools there at present. Clapham has been demolished and Streatham is a long and complicated story. Of course, this puts pressure on Brixton, a pressure increased by the current refurbishment of the wetside changing.

So I've been procrastinating and avoiding the issue; always coming up with lame excuses for not going swimming. (If I told you the lame excuses, you'd be appalled). A possible alternative is Balham, whose website is impenetrable and doesn't seem to list the pool opening times (which are very different from the centre opening times) nor restrictions, but a telephone call tells me that basically it's not open in the evenings after work.

There's another one near Victoria Station which has a ghastly name, the Queen Mother Sports Centre, but in future I shall refer to it as the Vauxhall Bridge Road Sports Centre because I see no merit in 'honouring' a Nazi sympathiser who amassed a fortune at the expense of the British taxpayer.

Its opening hours are not much better than Balham and its website just as useless; by phone call I discovered that it closes really rather early most evenings (last admission 7pm), but on Tuesdays it does actually stay open later.

It's only 15 minutes walk from work so I decided to go there this evening. What can I say? The admission cost is half as much again as it is in Lambeth: if you went three times a week that would be an extra £20 per month. I could pay a monthly fee of £30 but I'd have to go just about every working evening when I didn't have other commitments, if it were to be worthwhile. (Being in Zone 1 also increases the cost to me).

And what do you get for that? A cramped and dirty changing room that not only makes Brixton look palatial and clean, but makes even Clapham (pre demolition, obv) look spacious and modern. 

I went into the Pool and into the Slow Lane, which was a pain. Being so crowded it was a case of swimming toe-to-tail, and, by necessity trying to maintain the pace of the fastest person (who, arguably, should have been in the middle lane, although whether middle lane people would agree is another matter). I did spot some people relaxing over the other side of the pool and it dawned on me that these were the relaxation lanes and they were nearly empty, except for a couple of people chilling at the shallow end and one man bombing up and down. As soon as I get space and can focus on technique my speed increases, so I was actually going faster than previously but felt that I was in control.

It seems very cramped in general: no windows and no sense of overhead space. The walls are plastered with adverts for junk food, resulting in information overload. There is a leisure pool with a slide but that is only open to the general public for a couple of hours on Saturday and Sunday mornings

As I say, the changing rooms are pretty cramped, and I decided not to go in the showers, because it seemed to be shoulder-to-shoulder, with more than a hint of St Trinians and no opportunity properly to warm down.  Half the number of cubicles that Brixton has (and Briton additionally has shoulder height booths which I prefer to cubicles); the remaining changing area is just a set of benches by the lockers.

I suppose I shall have to get used to it as the most logical after-work swim for at least 18 months, until Clapham re-opens and takes the pressure off Brixton. I suppose on non-work days I should cycle to Balham. Of course, on hot days,  I also have the luxury of two Lidos close to home. Ha ha ha!

But I like Brixton; it has its faults. Its customary round here to slag everything, but everything, off and Brixton Rec certainly has its faults. But given a straight choice between Brixton Rec and VBR Sports Centre (bearing in mind there as close to the rail-links as each other), I'd choose Brixton any time.

Splishy-splashy

There is a bit of a swimming crisis in South London. Unfortunately, the epicentre is pretty close to me.

So, let us take stock.

• Streatham Pool: closed, for Health and Safety, should have been completely rebuilt years ago, but the finance was via a deal with Tesco, who have been dilatory and recalcitrant;
• Clapham Pool: closed in order to be knocked down and rebuilt;
• Brockwell Lido and Tooting Bec Lido, both outdoors and unheated, and open only to members in the winter;
• Brixton Recreation Centre: currently having the Wetside changing rooms refurbished, meaning that swimmers have to change in the cramped conditions on the 6th floor and descend by stairs to the Pool on the 4th floor, also leading to limited opening hours - although not as limited as the propagandist agitators would have you believe*

Knowing that Brixton is a bit crowded, and not especially wanting to parade around in public half-naked**, I thought I would try:

•  Queen Mother Sports Centre which is near work, but closes at 7.30pm, no good for me if I finish at 6.30
• Balham, which is a little bit out of my way: closes at 6.30 pm

I thought to myself it's always better to go to an open pool than one that is closed, for whatever reason. So I went to Brixton. And it was okay. For the first two lengths. Then the disco music started, loud, so loud that people started shouting to each other. The Aquarobics arrived and took over the entire 'recreation' lane, 40% of the pool for 10% of the users. Stupid bloody activity anyway, Aquarobics. Learn to swim, not ponce around!

And the 'music' has a beat. I don't know about you, but whenever I hear a persistent dominant beat, I have to move in time to it. It's a fairly well observed phenomenon of crowds walking/marching etc. Trouble was, it was a bit too fast for my comfort, so there I was swimming faster and faster.

And just for good measure there was a man. It wasn't really his fault; by rights he should have been in the recreational swimming area, but he was slow. But I kept getting stuck behind him. Overtaking shouldn't have been a problem, because he was that slow. But he was so splashy, and then there was such a wake from the Aquarobics class that I felt like a little boat being buffetted on the sea, conscious that if I didn't get a move on, faster than the beat of the music that was too fast for me, anyway, there'd be someone coming up behind wanting to overtake me overtaking him.

Still, I got my arse into gear, refused to believe the lies of those with an agenda, and it's so easy once you get back into the habit! And I feel good.

* someone is Twittering as 'Brixton Recreation Centre' and claiming it's only open for one hour in the morning; that isn't true. What is true is that it is limited to schools and other lesons during the rest of the day, but re-opens for general admission at 6.30, and closes, I think at 10.00 pm (but why let facts  spoil a good story!)

** it's not actually a problem, it's down the back stairs, not the main ones, and you only encounter other people parading half-naked

Fat Girl Makes a Splash

It is becoming a bit embarrassing, the size of my arse. Actually, that's never been a problem. You can call me all sorts of fat-names but lardarse isn't the best of them.

The problem is my general lardiness. I notice it in my bingo wings and flabby thighs. Aggh no! I have a litany of excuses for my failure to exercise of late.

When I took to the pool in August 2008 and soon after, bought a bike,  I bet you thought I wouldn't last. I didn't think that, either, truth be told, so my recent lapse, though a matter of regret, is not terminal.

The excuses range from a cold straight after coming back from holiday, long weekend at my mother's, cold wet windy weather, and worn-out brake pads. Which is a saga on inactivity in itself!

But I went swimming tonight. Only the second (or possibly third) time since I got back from holiday. The good news is that I am still not back to square one - that first occasion, when I couldn't even manage a length without stopping, and the water seemed oppressively deep.

The good news is at one point I totally zoned and stopped thinking about my body, the water or my surroundings, and I just swam.

The bad news. I'm still rubbish.

Pausing in between every set of two lengths. Pathetic. And because it's December, I was by far the worst swimmer in the pool. I presume it will close down during the Christmas break (which has annoyed me about swimming pools ever since I got my six metres certificate in about 1974), and then I want it to be clear: I'm not just there because of a short-lived New Year Resolution!

At home it was obvious I deserved a treat

No, no the whole packet! Obviously, I don't actually approve of these things, but there's this man who comes into the house bearing them.

Look at the brown ones, chocolate cream caramel wafers. Each biscuit is wrapped individually in brown dyed plastic. Four of them are placed in a clear plastic bag, and then along with the blue foil-wrapped ones placed on a plastic tray, before being sealed in blue and brown dyed plastic bag.

I am pretty certain that at least one of those packing items is entirely redundant. I remember when I were a lass, chocolate biscuits would come with a lot less packaging than that.

These aren't any chocolate biscuits, these are Marks and Spencer's chocolate biscuits. M&S that trumpets its 'Plan A' 'because there's no Plan B' who prides itself on reducing waste and caring deeply, with passion, about the environment (and, of course, about the positive image and consequent sales generated by appearing to care).

(crappy photo taken on phone because I CBA with hassle of proper camera!)

Exercise sucks

Sod all this for a game of soldiers.

We went out on the bikes on Sunday, just down to Tooting Common and back, not very exciting, but just enough to loosen up and get a breath of fresh air and blow off the cobwebs.

(We would have been out longer but we had spent quite some time looking through the internet for somewhere to go on holiday...we have now booked apartment in and flights to the Costa Blanca, between Alicante and Benidorm, but most definitely not Benidorm).

On Monday we set off to continue our Thames Path adventure. Last time, we finished at Barnes Bridge Station in the rain, so this time we caught the train there, at which point it started to rain! Fortunately it cleared up after we had had coffee in a chi-chi coffee shop, and we set off along the Thames.

That was a really lovely ride.

We got as far as Richmond. I would have liked to have gone on, probably as far as Kingston, but it wasn't actually very warm, and Jimmy decreed that we had done enough. We had got caught  in the rain in the middle of nowhere, and at one point it was a bit wet and cold, but we survived, and it stopped.

We stopped off at the White Cross at Richmond for a pie. I made the mistake of having a pint of shandy. That was a really stupid thing to do. The beer's fine, but I just can't take the lemonade. In fact, it's not the lemonade, it's just the bubbles. Just a half pint of bubbles, and I'm still hiccupping at bedtime! So, long and short of it, we caught the train home.

I would strongly recommend the Surrey bank of the Thames from Hammersmith Bridge down to Richmond. A great deal of it is through woodland, often under a cover of trees. If it wasn't for the constant roar of jets approaching and leaving Heathrow, you wouldn't know you were in Zones 3-4. I can't say I'd care for living under the flightpath, but house prices don't seem to suffer, so I can only conclude that aircraft noise doesn't matter quite as much as people pretend.

I only took fifty photos, and of course, several are instant rejects. That's the problem with cycling, rather than walking. On the bike you whizz past and see the big picture, whereas with walking you have more time to take in the details.

When I'm walking, I tend to have the camera round my neck, out of its case. Cycling, I keep it in its case in the ruck-sack, so taking a photo involves getting off the bike, taking off the ruck-sack, taking out the camera, taking it out of its case, and turning it on, whereas walking, it's just point and shoot!

It was so good to be in Richmond on Thames Borough rather than Wandsworth. Wandsworth really is a horrible Borough. Unfortunately, it's far too close to where I live and thus difficult to avoid. It is extremely bike unfriendly in so many ways - for example the way they mark paths on Wandsworth and Tooting Commons as being 'no cycling' without suggesting a feasible alternative to get from a to b. They even have signs instructing cyclists to give way to pedestrians on the designated cycle paths that run alongside wide footpaths. They barely pay lip service to the London and National cycle networks, and are very grudging about even green tarmac (which I admit is not much more use than a chocolate fireguard).

But what annoyed me most about Wandsworth was their disregard for the Thames Path. It's a wonderful idea and a wonderful asset, but Wandsworth aren't interested. A combination of allowing developments to encroach onto the riverbank and failing to provide adequate signage. Richmond, in contrast, has clear signs, not only showing directions but also mileage, and at intervals they also provide maps with details of local attractions.

When we got home, it was lovely to have a shower, and then to sit snuggly and yet cool in light cotton pyjamas. But I couldn't help thinking, despite all the cycling, it's still my feet that hurt, from too much walking!

This evening I went swimming. I was delighted to see a new sign outside the changing room stating that no boys over five are allowed in the female changing room, please use the family changing room. Of course, that won't prevent the 6-8 year olds being taken in molly-coddling mothers, but hopefully it will be a useful tool against those who allow their 10-11 year olds to run around and climb the cubicles to stare at older women getting changed (breeding a new generation of perverts).

I went in the pool and my arms gave out. At first, I told myself it was because I was out of practice. Then I began to think it through logically. The arms are usually the last to go, in or out of practice. Then it dawned on me, I was suffering the effects of carrying the bike up and down steps at Streatham Hill, twice up and down at Clapham Junction, and down at both Barnes Bridge and Richmond. So in fact my arms got more exercise from carrying the bike than my legs did from peddling it. So I might as well take up weight-training!

Tomorrow night, it's a double Proms night!

51 weeks in the pool

That's how long ago it is since I got this strange idea in my head of going to Clapham Pool and attempting - unsuccessfully - to swim a length.  A few weeks later, we acquired bikes.

My main motivation was an awareness that I wasn't fitting into my clothes, and my face was looking fat, plus some general low-level concerns about stamina etc, and the doctor being concerned about my weight.

Forget the doctor, I haven't been back since. That will teach them to weigh me, never see me again. Forget the weighing bit, what does that show!

I can't actually say that I have gone down a dress size: my sticky out bits are just as sticky out as ever. When that's my hips and my boobs, I really don't care. My waist has shrunk, and my stomach is defined. Well defined. Quite possibly the best -defined sticky out stomach. And, I have to say, it sticks out!

It's at least a couple of weeks since I last went swimming. During the autumn, I was going as often as three times a week. I did not expect to keep that up, and I'm not losing sleep about it. This evening, when I was on my seventh length, I suddenly felt really quite knackered. I wasn't sure what to think - six months ago, six lengths was a warm up, I just managed ten this evening.

I'm afraid I'm not one of these competitive macho achievers - life is way too short, and, let's be honest, what is more boring than someone going on about their athletic prowess. It is so obvious that I am in such a better condition than I was last year, and better than I could really dream about. It's good that I keep going back, even after a break. If in, say, thirty years time, I'm swimming on average twenty times a year, that's no bad thing, but obviously, I ought to be aiming for ten times a month now, plus cycling.

I don't think I weigh any less than I did a year ago, but I have lost flab and my muscles are significantly firmer. I do need to go to the doctor soon for a repeat prescription, and I suppose. I expect they will weigh me, and it will be tedious.

Little over a year ago I had my knee x-rayed. Nothing amiss was found. What I have found is that the more I swim or cycle, the less the knee hurts. Whereas, when I take a break, I start noticing it twinging.

Walking is still a total pain. I can walk quite far, but then I find later in the evening, and the next morning, my feet are really stiff and achey. Damn good thing I don't do any of that jogging rubbish.

Fitness and fatness, latest

The change in the weather* and the change in the clocks is making a difference. I think.

Being away in Brighton overnight on Thursday for work, I did grab the opportunity for a swim in the hotel pool. It's not ideal, being half the length of the standard local authority pool. But it's convenient,and it's there. And I went dancing later on, which is not exactly exercise, but I suppose compensates for the sugar contained in the large quantities of alcohol consumed!

Yesterday and today was cycling. Yesterday, Tooting Common;  today Wandsworth Common. We have rather got into the habit of cycling there, having a coffee, sitting around for a while, and then cycling back. There is a part of me that thinks it's sort of cheating, it's not real exercise.

I then tell myself to get a sense of perspective. I couldn't have cycled to Wandsworth Common and back this time last year. Objectively, that is good. I measure myself against my Autumn performance, and feel that, even though I slacked off over the winter, I am able to get to the top of certain hills, without getting off, in second gear (or gears 8-14, depending on how you see it). I don't feel that my pulse rate is so severely raised after exertion as it was, say, six months ago. I think I recover more quickly from stiffness in my leg muscles.

I said from the outset that this was not about losing weight in the strict sense. I said I was not going to be ruled and depressed by what my scales say. Which is a good thing, because my weight isn't shifting. I'm about half a stone less than I was at my heaviest, and I suspect that if I go to my GP's I'm going to get another lecture about losing weight, so I don't want to go, because they are obsessed by the discredited BMI (Body Mass Index).

My major motivation in changing my life was all about clothes. Seriously. When you go shopping for nice things and realise that you can no longer get into sizes that used to be right, that as you go up the sizes, the choice becomes less. When you try on clothes that were bought to last and you just look like someone squeezing into a size too small.

When I set out doing this, I read up a little and discovered that one of the measures better than BMI is waist-hip ratios, but I couldn't work out where my waist was. I can now, that's cool. I moaned about my enormous, bloated stomach. Now, I can't work out what I should think about it. Like so many people I am confronted by images on a daily basis of malnourished models with photoshopped figures, so when I see that my stomach isn't flat, I despair. And yet, I know it's firmer, it doesn't hang down as it did.

As for clothes, I am now in the ridiculous situation that some of my trousers and skirts, and not just the ones I bought at my fattest last summer, are either slipping down past my hips or looking baggy and unsightly.

And yet, my tops size has got bigger. My boobs are definitely firmer and less droopy, which is good, but I think my back has become more muscular. I've been avoiding buying clothes, fearing that my size will go up again, and hoping that it will go down. It's kind of frustrating not really knowing what will happen in the next six months, maybe in the long term I won't change size or weight very much, but just replace the fabby fat with nicely toned muscles. But the simple fact is, I have to continue with regular exercise for ever.

It's good to know that I have been able to pick up again after the winter go-slow. And it's good that I enjoy the experience, going out to a local park or Common, enjoying the fresh air, seeing the change in seasons. I know that they say that it takes two years to lose weight in a way that makes it permanent. But I was never aiming at losing weight.

* I mean, the general upwards trend, irrespective of the occasional cold blitz

Getting back into the swing

We went swimming on Friday, the first time in over a week, at least. It's a lot harder to motivate myself to go without Jimmy. Unfortunately our working schedules are such that we don't get much opportunity to do such stuff together. I do wish he had an ordinary job which gave him weekends and evenings off and we could properly do stuff together - although we'd then get in each other's way and on each other's nerves.

I can't say that I was highly motivated when I was in the water. I didn't exactly push myself. I think I did ten lengths which was a but pathetic. But not bad for someone who wasn't trying! I didn't really get that feeling of pounding heart or having pushed my muscles. again, I think that that's probably a good thing.

Afterwards we went to the Fujiyama Noodle Bar

Good food and excellent VFM. But I don't think we will go back because neither of us likes to sit in a restaurant where disco music is blaring out, particularly not the sort that sounds as though the needle has got stuck for the entire 45 minutes or so we were there, and especially not so early in the evening.

Today we decided was a cycling day. I popped out early afternoon to go to M&S at Clapham South. I was quite taken aback, although not surprised at how crowded the Common was. I can't say I care for Clapham Common. It's flat and boring, and is dominated by large groups of Baying Hoorays and Loud Antipodeans, the sort of men who wear Bermuda shorts, wrap around shades and flip-flops and give the impression they are doing it to prove how trendy they are. Plus there is so much broken glass on so many pathways - too moronic and selfish even to take their bottles away.

We set out to Tooting Common, which was nicer. It is possible to find spots with comparative tranquillity, although we always seem to head for the pond and then the café, which were heaving, especially with unsupervised brats and dogs. I did get a little bit of insight into myself. One child was beginning to irritate me like nobody's business. I did wonder when, rather than if, she would cycle into one or other of us. It was me, and it was a surprise attack, from behind, wrenching my right arm forward awkwardly.She said sorry, then her mother said, say sorry, so she said she had said sorry, so I thanked her for saying sorry, then her mother made a couple of guilt-stricken faces of sorry.

And I realised,it's not thoughtless behaviour I detest - it has taken me many years slowly to learn how to think through the consequences of my actions and their impact on other people. What I truly detest is people who behave thoughtlessly and then, when there action has a tangible effect on someone else (me) fail to recognise the significance of that. Whereas in this instant, something happened, and I got over it.

Again I don't think we over-exerted ourselves; in retrospect we spent too long sitting round and not enough time riding. Our excuse is that we have neglected it over the winter. But it's almost like we just cycle out to have a coffee and then cycle home again. That having been said, climbing up the incline that leads to the loco sheds I worked up a sweat and a state of breathlessness, and I didn't have to dismount once on the steep climb up to home. I was also sensible enough to have a shower immediately I got home, rather than sitting around procrastinating, which is my wont. It's also so much better to shower at home than at Brixton Rec because I can unhook the shower head and pound the water against my thighs.

I weighed myself. I am actually heavier than when I weighed myself in February, but I'm not too upset about that. I can still feel and see the difference in my body, and I have the next seven months or so to continue working on it.

Then was dinner. An M&S special, starting with mushroom crispbakes on a bed of wilted young spinach; smoked haddock with cheddar and mustard melt, served with baby new potatoes and asparagus, followed by lemon ricotta cheesecake, washed down with Chablis

Water

I am a bit of a water babe. Not a great swimmer, by any means, I nevertheless feel comfortable and at home in water. I cannot understand people who when they go on holiday to a seaside resort, spend the time just lying on the beach, or even worse, lying round the pool. Still, chacon a son gout...

One of the major attractions of Sinai is water sports. The coral reef is supposed to the best in the world, surpassing even the Great Barrier Reef in splendour, if not in size. All along the coast are Dive Schools. I am particularly amused by Camel Dive Safari, who have branches in Sharm and Dahab, and perhaps elsewhere. I have visions of riding to the bottom of the sea aboard a camel. It is possible to buy t-shirts of camels kitted out in snorkel gear.

The Red Sea is salty - not quite as salty as the Dead Sea, which is extraordinary - but still saltier than any other sea I have swam in.

On the Monday of our visit we embarked on a Lazy Day boat trip. The purpose is to have the opportunity to dive or snorkel, or just relax on the boat.

On our boat were seven customers and three staff. The captain and crew were Egyptian, the dive instructor Israeli. The four Egypt-based customers were British, except for the woman who was a London-based Italian. The Eilat-based customers were Dutch, American and Australian. Together, the ten of us were nationals of five continents. Quite extraordinary, I think.

I wasn't going to get any snorkel gear, but the man in the shop insisted, pointing out that its hire was included in the cost, anyway. I see no fun in snorkelling - I really don't like that thing going in my mouth and being round my face.

The other passengers included a very strong swimmer who had gone to Eilat to destress, post-divorce, and two people who wanted to log some more hours diving. The couple we got friendly with had paid some extra to have twenty minutes one-to-one introductory diving with the instructor. Elisa enjoyed it; Charles absolutely loved it, especially the sense of timelessness, and he waxed lyrical on the behaviour of an octopus he had seen. We chatted about our day to a couple in our hotel, Judith and Andy. They hadn't been sure, but hearing how I had just played around, not diving, not snorkelling, they went for it. And ended up having their arms twisted to try the introduction to diving, which they adored.

I decided to go into the water. The captain persuaded me to wear flippers. Doubtfully, I obeyed him. It was just so cool. I spent so long in the water. Not especially swimming, not making much effort to float. Just letting the natural buoyancy of the water keep me afloat. Loving it! I got quite far from the boat, but despite being in deep water I was unperturbed. I just swum back at my leisure.

The most amazing thing is breasts. The water was so buoyant it forced my breasts up higher than they have ever been and more than any corset could ever manage - the evidence is here

The next day I was swimming off our hotel's beach. Because of the coral reef, which is highly protected under Egyptian law, you cannot go into the sea directly off the beach but must use a rubber pontoon jetty that floats, moored, over the reef.

I was swimming happily and happily jumping the waves when it began to dawn on me that I was a long way from the pontoon and well out of my depth. The current was running at a sharp diagonal, and taking me away from the pontoon, and the wind had whipped up. On a normal beach, I would have just waited for the waves to crash me back into my depth - even if I ended up half a mile away - well, one can always walk back. But, legal aspects aside, the thought of being crashed onto the reef was unwelcome. The cuts and excruciating pain would have been the least of it - coral is a living organism and will spew out poison in self-defence.

So, I figured, I just needed to swim back to the pontoon. I set myself clear targets - level with the end of the dive school, level with the other end, level with the goalposts etc. But I began to tire, and I realised that if I rested and trod water, I would undo all the progress I had made. If only I could have rested on the bottom. But the water was at least ten feet deep. "Keep calm," I told myself. "Breathe in, use the adrenaline..." Then I panicked, which took away all my strength.

For a moment I thought. Maybe I could make it. But if I got into trouble what then? There were people on the jetty, but what if they realised it was getting choppy, and went back to the beach?

"Help" I shouted, and again. They looked round, they could hear but couldn't see. I shouted again, and waved my arm in the air. The man stood, thinking what to do. "Please go for help!" I said. He jumped in, "Please don't risk yourself," I said even more urgently.

He swam towards me. Then, from under the jetty emerged a snorkeller. He zoomed to me, and took my arm. The other man told me to take deep breaths, the snorkeller pointed to a handy rock and told me to rest. Then, as he supported me, I swam back to the jetty. The snorkeller disappeared.

Nobody knew who he was. I didn't recognise him, I didn't see him again. I think he may actually have been a water-borne Aladdin, appearing when a lamp was rubbed, and literally vamoosing into thin air. I expressed my thanks to him, and, more profusely, to the chap who had jumped in. Jimmy had heard my voice and assumed I was having a go at someone (who? me?), then realised what was happening, but figured if he jumped in it would just double the trouble. Lucy thought the same - she said if no one else had been there, she would have done, but she had already come out because it was too cold. She told me to have a stiff drink, and was really sweet and reassuring, and throughout the rest of the day checked I was okay.

In truth my major reaction was embarrassment. And annoyance at myself. I was taught at a young age to watch the current, to be aware of where I am in relation to the beach. I've never had problems in the water before, and here I am, nearly 37 and nearly drowning. The shame of it.

Jimmy's brother Terry was on holiday in the Bahamas last week and went out in a small boat to do some snorkelling with a local man he had befriended. The boat came loose from the moorings, and slowly it dawned on Sharon, back on the beach, that Terry - and the local man - were a long way from the boat or the beach. I have only heard what Jimmy told me, which was told to him by Lawrence, the Champion embellisher wind-up merchant - he spread it round the neighbourhood we were lost in the Maldives. No one believed him. However, the rescue involved a helicopter being scrambled.

Work around the house

Today: John came round and did stuff in the shower room. Earlier in the week he had put a surface over the plaster to make the tiles adhere. Today the tiles have been stuck back on the bottom right. As a payment he got my old gas fire, for which my front room is not adequately ventilated. And anyway the fire is too small for the fireplace.

Jimmy sugar soaped the ceiling and walls in the front room and undercoated the window frame. I did masses of chucking out of paper, brewed tea for the boys, washed the ceramics and took all the ornaments etc upstairs. I, sadly, threw out a blue and green glass candlestick which had been a 30th birthday present but is cracked beyond redemption.

I found my six metres swimming certificate from 1975 and a 25 yards certificate from 1977. I refuse believe that Altrincham Leisure Centre has a yards pool. I was short-changed by Trafford. Also found my Brownie enrolment certificate.
(Never a dull moment at Gert's cottage).

Also trimmed and swept up a binbag full of detritus from the bottom left corner of garden and replaced it with two enormous exterior candles retrieved from a skip in Chelsea by John.