Today is better weather. But not an inch on a hot summer’s day in Australia. Tepid again. Like weak tea.

Yesterday, I headed to the outdoor pool at the Hurlingham Club, Fulham, for a swim. I was  feeling like a fish out of water. Or even a duck out of water. I needed to be near some water. And to be submerged. The mermaid was feeling landlocked.

It wasn’t that warm I noticed as I laid my towel down on the sun lounger. As I was reading, I heard a “Quack, quack, quack.” One of the pretty ducks from the lake at the club was lost in the pool enclosure. He kept up a racket for a long time. And then I looked up from my book to see him, as if it was his domain, venture into the pool amongst the pheasants and stags.

A duck taking to water

He confidently glided off the edge and floated amongst the pheasants and stags. He even managed to get into the swimming lane, reserved for those intent on doing crawl up and down the roped off area. And then he popped up at the other end and waddled away. He just shook the water off and didn’t look back. If only I could do that.

It was a metaphor for me. I may look like I belong. But I am really a duck-like creature, amongst the Brits. A kangaroo, trying not to jump above the crowd. But I always do.

I am very proud of my contribution to the outdoor pool construction. I was on the Swimming Pool Committee, with Louise Corrie, when it was being built. I do not normally make a fuss. I like to be liked and to like. I do not like confrontations. But when they were fitting out the pool, they wanted to put a huge flower bed at the sun bathing end.

I protested loudly, reasoning that parents would not be able to see their children as they swam. My main objection was that it would look hideous. And kids would put their hands in and chuck the dirt everywhere. My objections were noted. So I enjoyed an uninterrupted view of the wonderful pool. I won the battle. Some battles are worth fighting. Most are not.

Can you imagine if there was a huge flowerbed blocking the view?

I sort of enjoyed my time by the water’s edge yesterday afternoon. But it was slightly cool. And when the sun went behind the wool-like clouds, it was frankly chilly.

The truth is, I have had the odd mishap in perfect aquatic scenarios. In two out of three perfect climes, Hayman Island in the Great Barrier Reef and Bermuda, it was bordering on disastrous in the glamour stakes.

In Hayman Island, I was recovering from an operation. I was run down. Whilst on the island I developed a large boil on my chin. It started as a spot, but before long it was Vesuvius. I went to the hotel doctor. He prescribed antibiotics, but he said that if worse came to worse, I would need to have it cut open. Thank God it subsided. Geoff joked when we were off to dinner, “Shall the three of us get going?” Ha, ha, ha.

In Bermuda, I was bitten by a mosquito on my neck. On the eventing news they informed islanders that a very deadly strain of mosquito had ventured onto Bermuda. And to be vigilant. Especially if you were near the lighthouse. Like in an Alfred Hitchcock film, I looked out of the window, and, immediately, saw – the lighthouse. That mosquito bite turned into a mountain. I tried to cover it with my hair. I tried lotions and potions. It was not to be conquered. But I did not perish. But it was sore, ouch sore.

So although I have loved a few exotic locations in my time – foremost, Hayman Island, (Australia), Bermuda and Heron Island (Australia) – they have not exactly loved me.

I will tell you about Heron Island, a David Attenborough favourite, another time.

Today, I am off back to the country.