Speedos. Get the look.

The last time I wore Speedos in anger was in 1997. Then, as now, I was in France. I had just purchased a ten-swim pass for the swimming pool in Montpellier in another vain attempt to become lithe and fit. Proudly recalling my 2000m swimming certificate from yesteryear, I was looking forward to burning a few calories. I can't jog, I certainly can't run, I detest gyms, but swimming I don't mind. Popped the old swimshorts on, walked through the shower, then through the freezing little pool of foot detergent, and was about to lower myself into the pool when a shout of "Ah non, monsieur! called me back. "Oui?" I replied to the lifeguard/style policeman.

To cut a long story short, or perhaps to cut a shorts story shorter (and tighter), my trusty swimshorts were interdit. If I wanted to swim, I had to be wearing Speedos. I looked around. Everyone, well, the men anyway, were all wearing miniscule Speedos. I was doomed. Now I have no qualms about being slightly fat, nor exposing my wobbly tummy in public. Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter, as someone once said. No, a body is merely a shell. On the outside I might be pale and flabby, but on the inside I glow. Warmth positively emanates. But wearing Speedos is different. I am British, and British people do not strut about displaying their packages in extremely small and tight-fitting swimming trunks. Or at least, not sensible ones. But at that particular moment I wanted to go swimming, so some minute Speedos were duly purchased at the front desk, where they kept a supply specially for naive tourists.

My swim-pass ran out with nine unused sessions.

I forgot all about this disturbing incident, and that pair of Speedos have been consigned to dustbin of history. In fact I probably threw them out that same day, knowing I would never wear them again. So packing for France, I threw my trusty swimshorts in the suitcase, and thought nothing of it. Mrs L, supposedly the better of the two us at packing, forgot to pack her bikini, so as our visit to the pool at Narbonne approached, we reaslised we needed to go and buy one for her. An Intersport shop was spotted close-by, but we thought that before splashing out, so to speak, we should check that the pool was at least open. Mrs L popped in, and came back with good news and bad news.

The good news; the swimming pool was open. The kids were immediately cheered. The bad news (delivered with a smirk I might add); we were both going shopping....swim-shorts were "interdit!" Gah! It all came flooding back to me. But we had to go swimming, the kids were desperate, and this pool had slides and everything. I spent the drive to Intersport cursing France and everything French.

The choice of Speedos was astonishing, there is clearly a large market. I bet that if you went to a sports shop here though, you would be hard-pressed to find even a single pair. I chose the cheapest ones, still eight euros, and conservatively went for "L" in the vain hope that it might preserve some of my anglo-saxon modesty. Fat chance. To give you an idea of quite how little material is used in these things, here they are in an espresso cup.



The kids had a wonderful time, however for reasons I cannot fathom, I did not enjoy it. The lady at the desk told me that swim-shorts were interdit because they couldn't be sure that people hadn't been wearing them outdoors, and so to preserve hygiene standards (and this coming from a nation that still has holes in the ground instead of toilets) they insist that people wear Speedos, which obviously people would never be seen dead in outdoors. A cunning strategy, except that French men probably wear Speedos at all possible opportunities. Dominique Strauss-Khan was almost certainly wearing Speedos in New York recently, but I digress. We were at the swimming pool for about an hour, and although I didn't get any comments, I knew it was not a good look. Nonetheless, in all good conscience I cannot conclude this post without a photograph of me modelling them.

You are invited to look away now, however, for the more curious amongst you, scroll down.....





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My first foray into Beauty Products. And no Wheatears.

You see, lately I've had this problem. I'm OK talking about it, it's fine. No really. You see, in my not-so-new role as a Domestic Goddess, I come into contact with water a lot. For instance, I do all the washing up, and I handle all the wet washing, and I wash my hands several million times a day - nappies, food preparation, cleaning, general dirt from children and so on. My delicate skin also gets assaulted with various cleaning products, wet-wipes, washing-up liquid, soap, shampoo - the list is frankly endless. Recently, my hands, particulary my knuckles for some reason, have become extremely chapped. When I look at my hands, I see myself at eighty. This cannot be allowed to continue. So what to do? A Beauty Product would seem the sensible answer, seeing as I am not able to simply give up all of the tasks listed above (much as that would make me deliriously happy).


Mrs L offered me some of her hand cream, but I'd smell like a boutique. Does hand cream for men exist? I didn't know, but I do now. The kind lady from Belgian Waffling is a Beauty Products expert, as well as being a secret Gull afficionado - the two do not often go hand in hand. She tends to go for the more lipsticky, deep soak, black eye paint stuff, but was pleased to be able to pass on a recommendation for something called Norwegian Formula. It apparently contains Norwegian children, which explains the price. I have forked out £3.69 for a miniscule tube of this stuff, and though I'm not intending to become a part-time hand balm commentator, so far it is truly excellent, and a tiny tiny amount has brought life back to my tortured skin. I am going to keep putting it on, if I remember, and see what happens after a week. Then I might move on to my knees, which are also quite sore because 89% of my day is spent crawling around the floor picking things up.

Three pieces of news since the last post. One most excellent, one pretty excellent, one not so excellent.

First the excellent: The Police have arrested two men in Forest Gate (1/2 mile south of Alexandra Lake) on suspicion of something having to do with poison. Breaching pesticide control rules, that was it. Eh? Is that some kind of legal euphemism for poisoning wildlife and a dog? I don't actually understand what is happening here, or how they found them. The test results on the birds are not back yet, so presumably that means they can't be charged with poisoning them, so perhaps this is a lesser charge until they can be slapped with the actual killing of birds. A bit like charging someone with posession of a firearm as well as shooting someone with it, or something?

The mildly excellent: The good ship ECO 1 is back in full working order with a new brake light and screen-wash squirter, and passed the MOT first time despite "chassis and body mounts in advance corroded state", whatever that means. Hopefully it doesn't mean that next time I apply the brakes the top of the car will just slide gracefully off the bottom with considerable forward momentum. This rates as only mildly excellent because it cost me £370, and took all day.

The not-so-excellent: I'm in The Sun today. Me, and Danni from Coventry. She's on page 3, and I'm on page 36, in case you were wondering. There is quite a large picture of her for some reason, but thankfully there is no picture of me at all. Almost unbelievably, the bird deaths on the Flats have made it to the red-top gutter press. I'm a birdwatcher this time, and I think "the whole thing is horrible" apparently. Which it is, so full marks to Rupert Murdoch for some gritty journalism.

What else? Well the Pheasant this morning was pretty exciting! I didn't see it, and all of a sudden it exploded from under my feet and flew off. I nearly jumped out of my skin, and it would have taken more than extract of Norwegian children to sort that out! I had no idea it was still there, as I had only seen it the once on Feb 9th. Amazing that it can go unnoticed in an area as disturbed as Wanstead Flats.

Oh yes, and no Wheatears, for the 129th day in a row (this is true, I checked....) We went to the playground on the Flats today, and the route over there just happens to pass through some suitable habitat, but there was nothing doing. I had the camera just in case, but was forced to point it at the girls and some Tufted Ducks instead. In the continuing pursuit I'm meeting Tim on the Flats tomorrow morning at first light. The winds have changed over today, and there is now a more southerly bias which should see stuff arrive, though whether Wanstead gets any of it is another matter. Rainham had the first Little Ringed Plovers today, and Crossness got a Wheatear, so I live in hope.

She gets it from her mother

So does she