This is for all the lady swimmers out there. Having been used constantly all year when it gets to winter and usually just before Christmas, my swimming costume is threadbare and transparent and needs replacing.
Having trawled the sports shops and found nothing suitable owing to the fact the materials used are as fragile as the one that needsreplacing, in desperation I decided to purchase one from the pool.
I choose a rather jazzy little number, nowadays I don’t take any notice of sizes and have a wardrobe full of sizesgoing from a 10 upwards.
I feel it is a homage to my life lived thus far and rue the loss of a young toned body.
Anyway this costume had something called ‘Tummy Control.’ I presumed it meant it had the ability to hold vast amounts of adipose tissue in check and you end up with a body like Elle Macpherson.
Once in the changing cubicle, I set about trying on my new purchase – only I didn’t.
There seemed to be straps all over the place and gaps around the sides and nothing at the back, I somehow managed to get my arms through the legs holes, my legs through the head hole so that eventually I was trussed up like Houdini. I had now broken into a sweat which was unusual because the temperature in the cubicle is normally that which a Nordic Icebreaker would be accustomed to.
Eventually I sorted the riddle and was pleased with the result, all the lumps and bumps seemed to be almost in the right place, and I marvelled at modern engineering that such a tiny amount of fabric could contain within its borders such large amounts of flesh.
I’d like to say the costume made me swim faster, but I’d be lying. Later... much later it was time to get dried and dressed, this proved to be a mammoth task. No matter how I tried I could not release myself from the costume.
If I did get a finger under the right hand strap and move it down my arm, the strap on the left shoulder shot across my neck, thus blocking off the blood supply to my brain and vice versa.
I didn’t know what to do, perhaps I should just put my clothes on top and get the bus home, but then I could visualise the mutterings from the bus on leaving a damp patch on the seat.
Eventually I managed to get one arm out of the strap and began rolling the costume down, it was a tight roll, the kind Mary Berry would be pleased with when making a roulade.
When the roulade reached my waist the imprisoned flesh, obviously relieved to be released cascaded southwards like a lardy waterfall and the offending item landed at my feet with a splat like a lycra road kill.
By now, I was exhausted and needed to lie down in a darkened room. I have since decided to give up the swimming, instead I climb in and out of the costume several times a week in order to keep fit.