Score: ۞۞۞۞۞
I'm in France visiting relatives. I'm not very good at speaking French, I'd blame my French teacher Mr. Goodwin but it's not really his fault, well it is un petit peu. We didn't do exotic holidays abroad when we were kids, we went to every Butlin's in the UK.
Now, this is one of my favourite swimming pools in the world (not including Butlin's), so I was fairly excited. I managed to negotiate the de rigour of French changing rooms until I was stopped in my tracks by the attendant who pointed at my Fred Perry swimming shorts and said a lot of unfamiliar sounding words. Realising the blanc expression on my visage, she pointed at a poster on the wall which said that bermudas are 'interdit' (I know that word), I must wear le trunks. There was no point in arguing, it would have been pointless as our common tongue was the picture of the offending bermudas. Besides, I've never been to Bermuda, Butlins Ayr was the furthest we ever got. So, dilemme time. Well, me being me, I waited until her back was turned and ran for the pool, let's risque it for a bisquit. I hit the water running before I could be spotted by a surveillant de baignade (thank you Google translate).
I duly complete Le Mile D'or. With confidence I exit the water and walk boldly past the lifeguard, what do I say if I'm challenged? If I was in Spain I reckon I could tell him I'm done, I swam Le Mile D'or. He probably won't notice that I've broken the cardinal rule. Just when I think I've gotten away with it he points at my pantalons. I look him in the eye and say 'Fin', pick up my towel and walk away. All those arty French films I saw in the 80s with Emily finally paid off.
I've been reading 'Pondlife' by Al Alvarez, his diary of swimming in the ponds of Hampstead Heath. A swimming diary? What a bizarre idea. Highly recommended. The ponds seem miles away as I sit writing this on a delayed Euroshuttle watching the snow falling. I'm dreaming of a white Easter. You're taking la piscine.