Eurovision week!  Would Week Three be nul points across the board or douze points all round?  Read on...

Saturday 16th May 2020

A passerby would probably have mistaken Swimmers' Beach for an ABBA convention this weekend: wigs, flared trousers suits and platforms ruled the day.  An electric blue jumped-suited Emma with flowing blond Agnetha-style locks, was supporting a wobbling Mandi in another pair of platforms.  Paul was sporting a marvellous flared white and red jumpsuit, along with a strawberry blonde bob, whilst Northey looked on bemused and shuffled the clipboards.  

There was 'Graham Norton' in a Wookie dressing gown that could only be Pavel, Stéphanie announced she'd come as France's entry so had no need of a costume, and Eduardo pointed to his bare feet and announced that he'd come as Sandy 'Shore'.  

A new swimmer approaches Paul.  "Hi, I'm Susan Pugh. Where do I sign in?"

"Sorry, we didn't catch your name?"

"It's Susan Pugh, Sue, and I'm new.  Where do I need to sign in?"

"Hello Sue, just over here.  Northey will get you signed in" 

"Who?" asks Sue.

"Oh, his names is Johannes, but we all call him 'Northey'.  It's so we don't get him confused with 'JET'"

"Right," says Sue looking baffled. 

"Briefing time," came the cry from the railings.  How was it 08:45 already?!  

"You've all been great the past two weeks, the weather is looking ok, so we thought we'd up the pace a bit," announces Emma.  Murmuring amongst the soloists.  "Two hours today," she carries on.  There's a strange hush as this sinks in.  Two hours?  We only did one hour last week!  

"This is what we're training you to do, to 'expect the unexpected'.  Stick together, keep an eye on each other and no bobbing!"

"Are you coming in with us this week, Emma?" shouts Number 1.  

"Mandi, Paul and Kinky Storm Boots all need to swim this week, so sadly I can't.  Maybe next week..."

There's a sort of shuffle down the shingle as the soloists edge reluctantly towards the water.  All except Dicky, of course, who bounds down the beach and leaps in with glee.  Despite the recent sunshine, the water still doesn't feel any warmer!  Aargh!  Right, I tell myself, come on Joanna, you can do this.  So it's off to the yellow ducks again, then the red and green buoys, then the long stretch down to the wall.  There's a breeze, but the sun is peeking out now and then.  

Once again the first 20 minutes go like a dream.  Then the sun goes behind a cloud; suddenly the world seems less rosy.   My arms and legs feel mechanical, finding a rhythm seems hard today.  I push on.  One lap down, still a long way to go.  By the second lap, my head still doesn't want to play ball.  A quick check of the watch shows "01:02:00", still 58 minutes to go!  

"Hi Joanna," shouts Henrietta (or was that Harriet?) when I get to the wall for the second time. 

"How's it going?"

"Not great, my head just isn't in it today."

"Aww, keep going Chick, just put one arm in front of the other."

Oops, maybe that was Harriet after all...  

By the time Swimmers' Beach comes into view for a second time my head is really having a tantrum.  I can see people on the beach, which suddenly looks like an oasis in a desert.  Why am I doing this again?  90 minutes have gone by, which my head deems as 'plenty'.  Mandi's in the water so she can't give me 'Mandi minutes.' I edge towards the shore.  

"What are you doing here, Joanna?" enquires Emma.  

"I'm getting cold, I'm tired, I can't find a rhythm.  I'm getting out."

"You've done 90 minutes though, you've only got another 30 minutes."

"It's just not working today.  I'll try again tomorrow."

"Just try a bit more.  Swim to the ducks, the green and the red buoys, then come back."

"I, I, I...."

"Just a few more minutes, then we'll assess again," coaxes Emma.

Cursing Emma, Dover, swimming and the world in general, it's off to the ducks again.  Then the green and red buoys, then back to the shore.

"Well done, now I reckon that you can do that again," announces Emma.

"But, but, but..."

"You'll be fine, you're still moving well, just one more little lap," comes the response.

Cursing even harder I set off again.  The sun comes out again, but my head is still in a grump. 

"That was great.  Third time lucky and then you're done," beams Emma from the beach.  

What?!  If there's such a thing as 'stomping' in a swim, then my arms and legs were doing it as I head towards the ducks for a third mini lap.  Heading back from the green and red buoys, I look up and suddenly there are red caps dotted about all over the place just ahead.  A few strokes of butterfly for good measure and it was time to come in. Two hours had not been my 'Waterloo' after all! 

Sunday 17th May 2020

After yesterday's battle with my head, it's with some trepidation I approach the beach today.  The sun is out though, with the water looking calm and almost inviting.  

The costumes are back out in force, with Kinky Storm Boots appearing to be refereeing a standoff between Michele and Michaela Jane, both of whom had arrived in identical outfits and wigs, so were debating whose idea it had been first.  Another guy seems to be trying on Mandi's wig and assessing whether or not he can get the platforms on.  

"Who's that?" I ask Paul.

"Oh, that's Crispin from Lancashire.  He seems to have taken a bit of shine to Mandi's outfit."

Susan Pugh was discussing something with Northey:

"Hang on, let me just ask Emma and Paul.  Emma, Paul, this is Sue Pugh, she's new, she swam for the first time yesterday."

"Hello new Sue Pugh!" chorus Emma and Paul. "How can we help?"

Confusion about which board New Sue Pugh should be on sorted, it's suddenly time for briefing:   

"Those soloists who were here yesterday were magnificent.  We asked you to push yourselves and you did.  We think you can go even further today.  If you were here yesterday, then three hours today.  This means that we'll feed you after two hours.  Come in at 11:00, have a feed, then one more hour.  And remember, the bar 'shuts' at 11:05, so don't miss out!"

Three hours?!  My head starts whirling.  Every long swim I've ever done is forgotten in an instant, somehow three hours suddenly seems like Everest:

"You alright, Jemima?" asks Kev, "You've gone a bit pale."

"Surely you're coming in today, Emma?" enquires Number 1.  "There's feeding to be done, sorry Number 1.  Maybe next week."

Getting in is no better than yesterday.  The shingle hurts, the water stings and Gillian Topsy falls straight in.  There's nothing for it but to swim.  That's why we're here, right?  And again the first 20 minutes seems ok, with me wondering what all the fuss was about yesterday.  And cold though the water is, the sun is out and the breeze seems relatively gentle.   I plod on.  Somehow today I find the rhythm that was so elusive yesterday.  How can two days be so different? 

Coming back round the Harbour past the groynes for what seems like the umpteenth time, I glance at my watch - 10:45.  Eek, I'm in danger of missing the feed!  Putting a spurt on, I scrape in at 11:03:

"You're just in time, Joanna." calls Paul as I shout my number in.  

Kev sidles over to me and whispers:

"Don't worry, Jemima, I've got some green jelly babies if you ever miss a feed."

"Where's the Battenberg?" cries Adrienne.  "I only swim for Battenberg!"

"Why isn't it on a tray?  And where's my goblet?" queries Number 1.  

Red-hatted swimmers grab cups of warm CNP, whilst yellow-hatted swimmers try to get out.  Gillian Topsy falls over.  Numbers are being shouted in all directions; Northey smiles, shuffles the clipboards and scribbles hieroglyphics.  

"It's meant to be a quick feed!  Off you swim, the bar is shut!" announce Paul and Emma.  

With Michaela Jane and Adrienne huffing that there was no treat, we head off to the yellow ducks again.  The feed really lifts my spirits.  The sun is out, I've found my groove and life is good.  The hour just seems to fly by and somehow three hours has past, it's 10:58 and time to swim in.

Staggering up the shingle to the oasis that is my bag of warm clothes, I spot that the pile of four DryRobes is back, with the end of a sleeping bag just visible.  This time there seems to be a strange lunchbox on top of the pile:  

"Mandi, what is that on top of Charles?"

"Not sure, maybe couscous? He always eats it for lunch once he's warmed up.  Looks like a rather small lunch to me."

As we huddle together to warm up, Harriet (or was it Henrietta?) offers round her home-made cake.  "Battenberg?" asks Adrienne hopefully.  "Pork pie anyone?" offers Crispin. 

Happily munching on our baked goods, we all agree that this was definitely a douze points weekend!