Virginia Woolf Style

Because they don't know the real me, poor loves, Inge de Bruin's kids - The Boy and The Girl - were all excited yesterday arvo when I said I'd go for a swim with them. There was much shrieking (not just from me) and showing me how well they could swim a lap of the pool and demonstration of jumps and magnificent belly flops (though I kindly acknowledged these as 'diving').

Then The Boy wanted me to take him on a piggy-back tour of the pool. He leapt onto my back in a most vigorous and painful manner and locked his arms around my neck in a way that tells me he's got a great career ahead of him in the WWF. It seemed his main purpose as I attempted to swim along was to press down on my head and shoulders with all his weight. At one point he helpfully commented, "Mum just usually swims under water." I could see why. Rather than uselessly struggle to get a breath, it's probably easier to quietly acquiesce to your fate.

Afterwards things got a little more civilised when Inge and I repaired to the spa, from which we could take in the view of the neighbouring hills. We were in there for quite a while. Maybe a little too long. My skin looked something like the saggy baggy elephant when we got out. I moved very carefully. I was afraid anything more abrasive than the air was going to shred my sodden epidermis.

On the way home down Great Eastern Highway I saw someone had left an old sofa next to an otherwise seatless bus stop. The perfect ending to the perfect afternoon.