Tuesday, 27 January 2015

I wish I'd finished this!

Last year, after my holiday to Mallorca, I began writing a blog post (below) in which sentence the important word is "began". I never finished and have just stumbled across it in my drafts folder - I enjoyed it enough to justify posting this meagre part and I hope it entertains you enough to forgive my sloth.

Also, it may remind you that I wrote about my holiday experience the previous year - also involving a swimming pool - and I was good enough to finish that one. It was highly entertaining, though I say so myself.

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Approx July 2nd 2014

I know, I know. For the last week you have sat, forlorn and empty, but not altogether certain why. Then yesterday, I reappeared on twitter and a little sparkle returned to your world. Although you have since been aglow with quiet happiness, there has still been something lacking and it is only now, as you rejoice in discovering this post that everything finally falls into place.

Yeah, baby. I'm back.

So what did I do while you mourned my absence? Allow me to tell you about Swoosh and Sway.

On one day, I was feeling rather warm beneath the somewhat aggressive rays of the Mallorcan sun and so decamped from my sunbed to the pool with one of my two friends. Initially we were very mature and responsible and trod water and swam in the deeply deep end, but after a few minutes I became exhausted and mi amiga kindly kept me company in the shallow end. 

There we rested and I angled myself so I could more easily ogle the hunk of a man that was playing some kind of watersport1. After a period of time that I will leave undefined, mon amie et moi entered upon the Swoosh era. It started innocently enough. A comment about how we weren't really swimming from the deep end to the shallow end - it was more like swooshing. Then, after a race back into the deep end we hovered for a bit, agreed to return to the shallow end and cried out simultaneously "Swoosh!" as we leaped forwards. 

I immediately laughed, spluttered and fought to stay afloat. Amica mea, being a much stronger swimmer, was able to continue gliding inexorably to the shallow end without her giggling impeding her. Upon arrival we swooshed to a stop, then swooshed gently around, then further swooshed in a more rhythmic fashion which rapidly became a can-can. From there it was only a minor detour through Irish dancing, Russian, Salsa and a little tango. However, we then discovered (by way of Austria) that the best dance when in a pool is by far and away the pasa doble as one can swoosh and spray easily with one's hands when pretending to flap a cape and pirouetting around a partner. 




1 It is entirely possible that the hunk was a different day. But he seems to wiggle his way into every memory. Odd, that.


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Update January 27th 2015

I recall the next incredibly obvious step was to break forth into oral musical accompaniment (in which sentence the word "musical" is horrifically abused). It is too late to say precisely which arias we belted forth as one bikini clad maiden gracefully circled another for the best part of ten minutes before we realised we had an audience, but I'm sure they were all deserving of a much better fate.

Therefore, when next you enter a Mediterranean swimming pool, take a moment to recall those noble verses which so heroically fought to be recognised and now lay beneath the rippling waters, sacrificed to the entertainment of drunken fools and prancing maids.