New tricks

I know I only wrote yesterday but I have something to report. I've discovered that you can teach an old dog new tricks. I'm learning to swim.

I mean, I can SWIM, but only breast stroke. I'm quite good at that: I've taken part in triathlons and regularly swim half a mile in the pool. But it somehow just feels a little bit 'old lady' only being able to swim that one stroke. Front crawl just seems more professional, more athletic, more triathlete...

I nearly didn't go. I was scared of the front crawl breathing thing. I tried by myself a week ago and ended up spluttering, with a mouthful of chlorine, after just a few strokes. "It's not for me", I said. "I'm quite happy doing the old lady swim. At least I put my head under the water!"

But curiosity took over and I paid my $4 (oh yes!) and got my 'lesson' wristband before I could change my mind and pretend I was just there to have a paddle around after a long, hot day. I think I just doubted the ability of the coach. I haven't had any sort of sports training for so many years that I'd forgotten how good coaches are at teaching! It really works!

He (Marty) put us through our exercises: kicking only, one arm up by my head, leg float and just arms, breathing alternate sides. And after several practice lengths I went from not being able to make it across the pool in one go, to swimming eight lengths in a row, no float or anything! It wasn't pretty, but I did it!

One hour, $4 and about a year's worth of self-confidence. Try it.

Miserable inspiration

Oh God, I not very good at this blogging lark. I only feel like writing something when I'm miserable, which doesn't make for very uplifting reading. I get all melancholy when I read something I wrote when I was miserable.

I have a poem I am quite proud of. I wouldn't for a million years show anyone else. It's far too pathetic and, for want of a better word, miserable. I wrote it when a much-loved ex-boyfriend made it clear, after a horrible couple of weeks of ignored phonecalls and overly-subtle brush-offs, that he didn't love me back. And although my poem might not be a masterpiece, when I reread it I do remember quite intensely how damn miserable that unrequited love left me. That has to count for something, surely?

I'm sort of hoping that when my great-grandchildren are going through boxes of old postcards, recipes, love letters and concert tickets (and I assure you, they are already piling up nicely!) they will come across this poem and suddenly understand what a complex and talented individual I was. "She was a poet and just didn't know it!" my biographer will exclaim with a sigh.

Meanwhile, I'd better be careful my husband doesn't find it. It really is very embarrassing...