Wily London broke out her world-famous spring weather finally this week. I love her, but don’t trust her, so I am carpe dieming it at every turn. I’ve got my rotation of Primark maxi-dresses (and rompers and playsuits in case you thought I was being so 2011) and a picnic bag ready at all moments.
This afternoon I decided to take Simon swimming at the Parliament Hill lido. It was a last-minute decision but an easy one to make once I realized the C2 bus is practically door-to-door. Me and my double buggy/pram/pushchair/stroller rise and fall to the whims of the bus routes.
I love every single thing about the lido experience. No matter how long they endure, the public pools in the middle of big cities will always seem like throwbacks to me. Maybe because they always look 100 years old (you don’t even need to Instagram/Hisptamatic your photos). Or maybe it’s the concept of them: so of the masses. You pay, you go through a turnstile, you accept the idea that you have to lay on the ground (the public doesn’t do lounge chairs) – often on concrete, you keep an eye on your bag at all times and if you’re peckish, well, you grab a 99 (even though I don’t like Flake bars) at the caff.
And today I also loved my billionth reminder of the language differences. Lido. Lido. A word unknown to most Americans were it not for all the fun activities constantly going on on that particular deck on The Love Boat. A lido is an outdoor public swimming spot in the UK (where lots of men wear briefs as their swimming costume).
Now the *very poor* can swim!