There’s a new wordplay in town which goes something like this: How to get a bikini body. Get a body, put a bikini on it.
Brilliant, I’ve taken it to heart and am busy – when time allows – gracing the beach and enjoying the fine rays the south coast has to offer, and also braving the Solent.
There are many people who refuse to swim off our beaches, some because of the tides, some because of the pollution.
I don’t get the second one. The water looks good to me and since the EU brought in all those excellent regulations about water/beach cleanliness, I’m pretty sure it is as it looks.
Yes, there are the occasional bits of litter and seaweed, but generally speaking I think it’s a fine place to swim.
Obviously the stones don’t help. They’re not the best, but when you consider the drunk zombie walk of those in pain, lurching their way up and down the beach, almost going over on a sharpened point, you can’t help but wince in sympathy.
Compare that walk, that short walk, though with sand. Lovely to walk on, but such a nightmare when it comes to cracks and crevices and the application of sun cream. Give me stones any day, especially when I’ve invested in a fine pair of swim shoes for £4.99. That’s that taken care of.
And the third reason people don’t swim? That’s the temperature.
I’ve noticed in particular this summer the amount of wailing about frozen anatomies going on up and down the beach.
Small anatomy. Crushing of anatomy. Guess who I’m referring to here? Yep, teenage boys. Never have I been privy to so many cries of ‘man-up’ coming from bony boys who get to about waist level and then hang around in limbo berating one another for not being braver. Then they do a bit of half-hearted splashing, stand around shivering and then make up a joint excuse to go back to the beach.
It makes me laugh, this need to man-up. Why? Because all around them we have elderly ladies, young girls and young women walking to the water, striding in and getting on with it (okay, and a few men too). Because as we all know, it’s much better when you’re in.
So the chant needs to be changed – it’s time to woman-up. And that’s a fact.
COME ON INTERNET, TELL ME WHAT TO BUY... IN THE FUTURE
We’re coming into our household birthday season (isn’t it common and weird how family birthdays clump at certain times of the year?) and I’m being lazy – shopping online.
It does irk me though, as handy as it is, that the internet is so connected when it comes to my purchasing choices.
Facebook knows what I have been shopping for. and then shows me adverts of where I can buy similar goods at a lower price, or at higher quality.
These algorithms are rather behind the curve. It’d be much more useful if they could predict other gifts which I might need and get on with suggesting those instead, rather than deluging me with advertising for what I should have bought.
HATS (AND TRAINERS) OFF TO THE STAFF AT WAR MEMORIAL HOSPITAL
Once again I was in the minor injuries unit at the War Memorial in Gosport.
Last week I was there as the human support for my son who’d sprained his ankle trampolining. This week it was for a freak incident which occurred when I was walking my dog through an otherwise tame park. A spear-shaped-stick punctured the top of my foot through my trainers –it was bizarre how it happened – as in, I have no clue really how a stick flicked from the ground and had the strength to draw blood.
It was also very, very painful and my foot swelled like a fetid balloon.
Brilliantly the staff did their thing and patched me, and many others, without commenting.
What a great community resource. I love the NHS.