I did something brave last weekend. After having had a sumptuous Saturday lunch, I dared to step out in the cool 46 degrees, for enrolling myself in summer swimming lessons.
Standing at the sports office, I already felt like an achiever while filling out the form. Staring occasionally into the emerald blue water, I thought to myself, “If Michael Phelps could do it, so can I.” It’s a different thing he is an Olympic medallist, and the closest I’ve been to water is the bucket in my washroom. Wait, do beach trips count?
My daydreaming was interrupted by a mother walking hurriedly into the enquiry office. She clearly had no time for exchanging pleasantries, and went on in a matter-of-fact tone: “If skating classes end at 5.30, and your pool opens at 6, what would I do in the half-hour window?”
