Wednesday 6 May 2009

Swumk

My siblings, Cistern and Malkovski Harlot*, turned forty on the weekend. Cistern**, struck down with sudden maturity, decided to swim one hundred metres for every year of her life. That's 4 kilometres, my fellow sedentarians – 2.48 miles in the old money – a long way by anyone's standards, except Cistern's, who about five years ago decided to become an all-singing, all-dancing athlete-progenitrix-PhD-student. She cast aside her dissipated yoof, tossing off half-Marathons before breakfast, penning award-winning thesis chapters by lunchtime, traipsing the world and co-parenting a truly stellar specimen of nieceliness.

When a person manages to circumnavigate Pacific islands wearing nothing but a pair of goggles*** and when such a person invites her sister to join her in her birthday swim, and when her sister hasn't seen her other sister and assorted other stellar specimens of niecephewliness for yonkers, due to the fact that the sister who is I has run away to make her fortune in the Deep (dank) South, that same sister of course enters into a contractual arrangement with Mr Aeroplane Company and betakes herself to Sydvillea, City of Swimming Pools. And despite the fact that she (I) hasn't swum more than a hundred metres in the last year, she (I) manages to polish off a hundred metres for every year of her (my) life too, blessing her cotton socks for making her 9 years younger than the hero of this story. Rest assured, I have been retrospectively carbo-loading ever since, which is one of the best things about unwonted three kilometre swims.

"But what about the kittens?" you ask. "Where were they while you swanned up to Sydney to loll around in swimming pools?" Well, seeing you ask, they were at home, where internetian superhero and cat-tolerator, Timothy T, was simultaneously entertaining his mother and educating my quadrupeds in the finer points of G. K. Chesteron. At which point it behoves me to disclose that Timothy T is not only as excellent as you ever thought he was, but excellenter. He left Harlot Heights on Sunday night, not only the richer for his cat-wrangling, his G. K. Chesterton appreciation, and a carton of full-cream milk, but also stuffed to the ceiling with what I suspect is his brother's entire tomato crop. Let she who craves ratatouille have it in abundance.

Harriet and Beatrice, if this is possible, were even more lovely by Sunday night than they had been the previous Friday. They are growing in stature and catliness, and have learnt all sorts of magnificent feline skills. To wit: gnawing on the leaves of the potted bamboo; dismembering toilet paper rolls; nibbling on phone bills, and (less pleasingly) library books; mountaineering their way onto the kitchen bench and licking scraps from plates, and then mountaineering their way back onto the kitchen bench as soon as they are removed from the kitchen bench, and then mountaineering their way back onto the kitchen bench, etc; pouncing on things that move suspiciously under bedclothes; gazing wistfully into the loo.

Meanwhile, there remains the matter of my brother turning forty too. If anyone has any good present ideas for a person who likes beagles, sudoku and marzipan, speak now.

* Not their real names.
** Still not her real name.
*** And swimmers. And a cap. And contact lenses.

12 comments:

genevieve said...

Blimey, three kilometres. Sounds like you could do with some marzipan yourself.
TimT is a jolly good fellow, and those kittens sound wonderful. I can save them some toilet rolls if you like.

TimT said...

there remains the matter of my brother turning forty too. 42? I thought you said he was turning 40!

TimT said...

And this Timothy T sounds like a fine fellow. I'd like to meet him one day.

Martin Kingsley said...

Tim, you're big and mad. I just want you to know that.

In other news, three kilometers is a jolly good effort. Myself, I lift the heavy thing and put it down in precisely the same place as I found it, and then I lift the heavy thing again. With any luck, I should find myself to be Gub'ner of Khalifohnia by the time I hit 40.

Alexis, Baron von Harlot said...

Genevieve, your toilet rolls would be the icing on Harriet's and Beatrice's kittenly cake. Toilet rolls are second in desirability only to chewable telephone directories.

Alexis, Baron von Harlot said...

Not the Heavy Thing!

Alexis, Baron von Harlot said...

Timty, I suggest to you, a person on the verge of your thirty-twoth, that you should save that joke up for personal use.

TimT said...

Please don't remind me. I feel so old. My hirples are turning purple.

Jayne said...

Am tired thinking about the exercise and effort of putting on a swimsuit, ergh.

genevieve said...

I'd better get saving then :-)

Zoe said...

But there are any kitten PICTURES!!!

Alexis, Baron von Harlot said...

Good point. Kitten pictures. No post about swimming is complete without them. Will get onto it in the next coupla days.