Young Fergus was almost sure that something was not quite right about his evening swim.
But he could not put his finger on it.
No clue as to what wasn’t right. He kept searching his trousers and anorak pockets while trying to remember what he had forgotten…
I remember the days, last summer, when this place was the only thing that kept me going while I was getting tormented in the Mistake Factory. It helped me to get through another hellish day. The promise of a cold dive into the deep, indifferent sea. And everything seemed better.
Today I went for a swim after my day in the Repair Factory. And it was just as enjoyable as it was last summer.
Without the torture bit in lieu of foreplay…
The big grey seal male was somewhat disappointed when, upon investigating the cause of the big unseasonal splash in the harbour, he discovered with barely concealed disappointment that it was not the partner he was hoping for.
It is true that with my overgrown whiskers and generous coating of blubber, I can easily be mistaken for a curvaceous mature she-seal.
I won’t hold it against him.
I did however resent what he was holding against me under water, the filthy animal.
The cold water did little to cool down his ardour.
Now that I am no longer able to go for a swim every day, I have to take an educated guess at how much the water temperature has dropped in the week just gone.
Or rather I dive in, and hope for the best.
Dipping a toe and trying to go in gradually would be just too soul-sapping.
Wow. What a day. Life is so strange outside of the Mistake Factory.
I met Carlos for lunch. We went to Kyoto for some Asian food. I went for my five lunchtime dives at the 40 Foot.
What’s new, says you? I do that at least once a week. I call it the slice of delight in my shit sandwich.
Well, the difference today is that the shit sandwich had vanished.
Thanks Carlos for the photo.
Given the option, Molly would have preferred a little more privacy to soften the corns and calluses on her feet.
Unlike his older counterpart (extra), the young lad with the fancy trunks, after much hesitation (long enough to lose all sensation in his toes), opted not to go for a swim after all.
His mate called him chicken. The French expression is “poule mouillée” (wet hen). Which seems a tad ironic.
Lesson of the day: it is not the fanciness of the swimwear that makes the swimmer.
Well, Buckley’s auction room in Glasthule is the place to be. You will have to outbid the other aficionados of stuffed birds first.
How could you resist this fine specimen though? With its alluring half smile and come hither blue eye?
The 69 auction tag seems most appropriate here.
For the pedants out there who want to insist that this isn’t a shag but a cormorant, please stand up and ruin my (albeit easy and crass) joke.
The evening swim. And suddenly everything makes sense. And seems easy.
In and around Dublin 