Wimmin

Tsunami's the name. No idea why.

We went to the swimming baths today and they've changed quite a bit from the sweat-soaked repression-caves I remember. Unisex changing rooms with saronged Bohemians of both genders discreetly massaging conditioner into their tiny pubic mounds. Showers with sensible water flow and hot/cold adjustment. Real prospect of not shivering your balls off in a hydrochloric slick of snot and hair bobbles and worse. Water temperature of 30 degrees - meaning no huddling with other pockets of bathers around the warm vents like those fish that pick eczema off peoples' backs in the Red sea. Speaking of which: no wading through coral reefs of corn plasters and flaked-off verrucas. Alertly casual lifeguards with a definite air of possessing better credentials than grade C Biology and a subscription to Upskirts Monthly.

Then, just as we're acclimatising to this brave new world, this forty stone bloke in a surrealist Speedo thong wipes out three kids with his deep-end tsunami while a guy behind him unstraps a prosthetic leg and disappears into his frothy wake like they've been practising it for the next weirdolympics.

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose...