Public Swimming Pool: The clues in the title.
I’m no Michael Phelps, like, don’t get me wrong I’ve puffed hard and long on the bong, you know it “goes down smooth when I get a clean hit of the skunky phunky, smelly green shit.” Tipped week old bong water all over my corduroys and smelt like a 70s Butlins bingo carpet till trust fund day.
But when it comes to swimming I like to let the breathing dictate the pace. On sunny days you’ll find me nonchalantly kicking the autumn leaves
in the medium paced lane of London Fields lido. Mums just got me a lovely pair of Vilebrequin Earth Paradise swim shorts™ and there’s nothing I like more than chatting about doughnuts with Mungo & Hector. Last Saturday we met up with Otis, Daisy and Pearl. Otis is getting a fixed wheel bike, we talked about doughnuts for hours. The people swimming didn’t seem to mind that we where, like totally clogging up the lane with our enormous sense of entitlement and superfluous gibbering on and on and on about the Jack Wills Varsity match, blah blah fuckity blah.
Otis thought it would be good to go for a swim, he thrashed up and down in the slow lane doing the “dolphin” and then we all drove off to Abercrombie & Fitch in Stellas new Saab, safe in the knowledge that we where now living rent free in the heads of all the proles at the swimming pool.. ..
