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”.
