sporting life (2)

The Fool swims. In the locker room, he begins by discarding his spectacles … whereupon reality acquires a decidedly nebulous dimension. Then, it’s a matter of a moment to undress and put on the swimming trunks, cap, goggles, and to step into the heated pool area itself.

And then it becomes really nebulous (no bad thing, I suppose – I mean, picture the Fool in his tight lycra swimming trunks, silicon cap and bright blue goggles. The mind shudders).

Adelante: by then he has retreated into a world within himself, a bubble of power and concentration, and he goes into his routines only vaguely aware of the other people and shapes around him.

But routines are conducive to idle thoughts: “Hello! Do I see some shapely silhouettes in the next lane?”, and in his mind’s eye there appears a gaggle of comely thirty-somethings, agog at the elegance of his stroke. “Go, Shark!”, he fancies them saying as he goes by in a welter of spray; and “Fly, Albatross, fly!”

And he discreetly smiles his wolfish smile as he leaves them in his wake …

You don’t think they could be 80-year old great-grandmothers instead, do you? Shaking their heads and murmuring “It’s that nice Mr. Mitty, dear. But we’d better not wave to him, lest he drown himself on his foolish grin”.

sporting life

The Fool swims. He’s not particularly proud of it (horrible, common sport, swimming), but it’s what the Doctor ordered. So he swims. The school the Princess attends has a pool, and it’s available for “external users” after-hours. But the children’s teachers remain for us externals, and in the way of children’s teachers they are not content with simply watching one swim and keeping an eye out for drowners. They like to organize “activities” and contests – it stems from their habit of having to keep idle young minds and bodies occupied, I suppose. I have thought of telling them they needn’t bother with us (it’s all the poor Fool and his classmates can do to keep afloat, much less have the sort of idle thoughts that need curtailing), but they seem so happy.

Anyway, in the course of activities and contests, points are attributed and prizes given. And so it has come to pass that the Fool was elected Swimmer of the Year last year. The fact that my classmates – my competition for the Grand Prize – seem to be for the most part natives of landlocked lands who cannot have seen the sea or a pool much before their 40th birthday is neither here nor there. Modest people with much to be modest about – such as the Fool and Mr. Clement Attlee – live for these small triumphs.