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Once more into the pool dear friends.
A middle-aged Romany gentleman led his white horse past as we sat on the wall waiting for the swimming pool to open. The sun lay low in the sky but it was getting hot already.
“Hola,” I said “nice horse.”
“And rare too,” the guy answered.
The horse stared at me with albino eyes.
“Albino,” I say, putting accent on the i.
The guy paused, smiled and nodded proudly.
“That’s right.”
Then he marches the beast across the dusty wasteland that each summer acts as the swimming pool car park and leads it up to a tumbledown house opposite that I’ve always assumed was abandoned. He slaps the albino horse on the arse. It winnies, bounces up a couple of steps and trots straight through the front door. The gypsy follows it inside and closes the door.
“It’s probably got its breakfast on the kitchen table,” whispered Lara, my 7-year old daughter.
5 minutes later we were in the pool.
Tuesday, 200m 6 minutes 30 seconds.
Wednesday, 500m 15:40.
Thursday, 800m approx. 26 minutes.
I haven’t got any faster.
But I have met an albino horse that lives in a bungalow.
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What I talk about when I talk about swimming
