Back in the magnificent town of Wellington, I have recently taken up swimming. It is fair to say that I'm not a very good swimmer as I have become a big chicken about going underwater. I didn't learn to swim until I was 13, when a very close friend of mine had a birthday swimming party and taught me to swim right then and there at the party. However the minute I could swim - my overly competitive gene kicked in and I went from lagging around in the shallows to taking my bronze, silver, gold and life saving medals. I went on from there to high diving. But sadly all that was many many many moons ago and over the years I've swum less and less and less until finally even getting in the bath was a challenge. However on a holiday last year in Tokyo, I started going to the hotel pool and found it to be a much less boring way of moving than pounding away on a stupid treadmill. So I made a little pact with myself that I'd start going regularly and I have kept that promise and I now go almost every day though I am truly a pathetic sight in my black bathing cap as I look just like a black boiled egg. I have not yet regained my former water prowess but I remain convinced that sometime soon I will book some lessons and will then turn ideally overnight into Ian Thorpe. So my point to all this rambling, is that the hotel 'pool' is - the sea and to get into it - you have to go over rocks and onto a very precariously placed open ladder and although, we're talking about the Mediterranean - because of the nature of the geography and the number of nutters in speed boats the swell under the it is not exactly millpond. The steps are also dead slimy and go right under the sea giving me a horrible sinking feeling as I descended.
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