There are rules at the swimming pool which everyone obeys. You must shower before swimming. In the Slow Lane you must swim clockwise, slowly. In the Fast Lane you must swim anti-clockwise, fast. I’m not sure which way you swim in the Medium Lane as it’s over the other side but I think it’s clockwise. These are the rules and we obey them. Very occasionally when someone doesn’t the Duty Lifeguard sorts them out.

I remember early on when the pool was first opened. I was swimming in the slow lane. I was swum into, quite forcefully, by a young man trying to pass me on the inside – between me and the side of the pool. I was very surprised. He was very cross. I was not pleased.
I said, “You’re not to do that.”
He said that, where he came from, he could. I said that, here, you could not.
He said, “Is there a rule that I can’t?” He also made some rather derogatory comments about my age and state of fitness.
Fortunately, before things became nasty, a lifeguard appeared and told the young man that he was not to swim fast in the slow lane. There was a rule about that. He also said he was not to swim into people.

On Monday, swimming in the Slow Lane, I became very aware, not of rules but of the importance of manners.

There were those with good manners. I count myself among them. We indicate to those faster than ourselves to go ahead of us. We say, ‘Thank you’, or at least indicate a ‘Thank you’, to those who allow us to go ahead. And we never bump into anyone. I’ve even been known, in more recent times, to be gracious towards those who have bumped into me. Swimming is a pleasure.

Then there were those with bad manners. They don’t give way. They do launch forth very slowly before those who are faster. They even swim closer to the centre than to the side which is very inconsiderate. And if anyone bumps into them they make their displeasure known, loudly. Swimming, sometimes, has its irritations.

And there was a swimmer with no manners. They, (Let me be clear. There was only one of them but I am giving no hint of age, gender or race so that I cannot be accused of stereotyping, or discrimination, or something I haven’t thought of.) They swam as if there was no one else in the pool at all. Sometimes they did walking exercises, slowly, then, without warning, freestyle, fast. Or the other way round. Tricky when you were trying to pass or swim behind. Sometimes it was backstroke swimming into others without acknowledgement or apology. They were oblivious of everyone else and simply did their own thing however they wished, regardless.

I have come to realise that having no manners is the worst of all.

PS On Tuesdays and Thursdays for Silver Swim we are over a certain age, we are regulars, we acknowledge each other, we obey the rules and we all have good manners.

The Christian Feast of the Transfiguration has been celebrated by the Western Church on August 6th since the year 1456. The first atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima on August 6th 1945. The symbol or reality of each is a bright light and a cloud. The Christian Feast celebrates the glory of God in the Transfigured Christ. The light and the cloud of Hiroshima indicate the destructive power we have achieved . The dates and the symbolism are the same for each event. Each shows what we can be.

I almost panicked. I thought I had lost the remote control for Laetitia. I knew the remote must be somewhere. It couldn’t have walked. Or perhaps it could? This gives ‘losing control’ a whole new dimension. I found the remote for the television. The remote for the radio and disc player wasn’t where it was meant to be but I found it, eventually, on the shelf under the television with the remote for the uplighter at the end of the sitting room. I never use that remote so I don’t know why I keep it.

I still couldn’t find the remote for Laetitia. I even looked in the drawer where I keep the remotes for the garden lights and the garage door but the remote for Laetitia was not there.

Perhaps I should explain about Laetitia. My younger daughter has given me, as a birthday present, a vacuum cleaner. I must admit my heart sank slightly as the box was big and the instructions looked complicated. But after a week I unpacked the box, several boxes actually, each inside another, and discovered the vacuum cleaner. With the help of a friend I dealt with the instructions. It was, is, a remote controlled vacuum cleaner.

My elder daughter has a similar vacuum cleaner. I think that maybe where the idea, as a present, came from. Her vacuum cleaner she has named ‘Mr Humphries’ as in, ‘Are You Being Served’. Sometimes, she tells me, she watches it moving around the room instead of watching television. That’s sad.

When I saw mine I sent a message of thanks saying, ‘It’s a girl, and she’s called Laetitia’. I have a friend who has named his electric bicycle Laetitia (Latin: joy or gladness) because she does the work going uphill leaving him joyful. My Laetitia does the work cleaning leaving me somewhat glad. The vacuum cleaner is round, about the size of an old 78 record, about two inches deep and on wheels. It is also extremely efficient.

My Laetitia, when I’ve found the remote, moves around my sitting room cleaning while I go to mass or to swim or, when I find the remote, to bed. When her batteries begin to fade she returns, of her own accord, to home base to recharge. Home base is under the black leather chair in which I sit to watch television, using the remote of course. It’s possible that one day I will replace that chair with one that has a remote so that it can raise my legs or stand me up when I need to get out of it.

Each of these remotes is helpful as they save me from mildly irritating tasks. I’m told that I can transfer most of their functions to my telephone along with changing the sound level for my hearing aids, controlling the central heating and seeing whose at the door. All that is just a step too far. My telephone is just a telephone. Except of course it isn’t. When I was in New Zealand it was my telephone that registered me in everywhere I went, supermarket, bus, church, café, everywhere. I’m told I can use my telephone as a debit card. I’m not going to risk that.

I truly do recognise that technology is wonderfully clever and helpful. However the pandemic, zooming and doing everything at a distance, remote, all of that has shown me that I never ever want to be distant, remote, from other people or for them to be remote from me. Well, not all the time.

P.S. I’ve found the remote for Laetitia. It was where I first looked. I mistook it for the remote that turns on the gas fire. Now, before winter, I must find that remote.

A friend has directed my attention to a radio programme, ‘Just One Thing’, with Dr Michael Moseley. It’s on BBC’s Radio 4. The introduction to the programme states, ‘If time is tight, what’s the one thing that you should be doing to improve your health and wellbeing? Michael Mosley reveals surprisingly simple top tips that are scientifically proven to change your life.’

After a slight struggle I’ve managed to download some of the programmes. One was broadcast on Sunday June 6th and was called, ‘Count your Blessings’. It’s all about being thankful. Research has shown, it seems, that being thankful can change and improve not only your mental life but also your physical well being. It can also help you sleep.

On the programme, apart from talking to someone who had done research on the subject, Dr Moseley set someone else the task of writing down, each evening, three things for which he was thankful, and interviewed him as well. It was all very interesting and informative, and it did take me back.

When my children were small I used to say prayers with them, individually, when they went to bed. We didn’t follow conventional patterns as they climbed into bed and I was the one that knelt beside the bed, my head near each of theirs so that no one else could hear – no one other than me and God, that is.

We would start with ‘God bless,’ and the the predictable, ‘God bless Mummy and Daddy’, then, depending on whether they wanted to shorten or lengthen prayer time, we’d go to siblings, grandparents, various relations, school friends and so on.

Next it was ‘Sorrys’. There were strict rules around ‘Sorrys’. I could not suggest anything that I thought should be included. There were sometimes when I thought there were glaringly obvious faults to be acknowledged. However it was not my business to point them out, even with a hint. Being sorry and God’s forgiveness was their business not mine – even though I was listening in.

‘Thank yous’, on the other hand I could encourage. ‘Thank yous’ were the final prayers before my, ‘Good night, God bless, Sleep Well, See You in the Mooorning’, which was a sort of chant, before a final three kisses goodnight. If ideas were not forthcoming for ‘Thank you’, the rules did allow me to prompt, ‘What about, thank you for …’, just to get the mind’s wheels turning. And, of course, once the wheels were turning there was another opportunity to extend lights out.

All of which takes me back to Dr Michael Mosely and ‘Just One Thing.’ I am very pleased that he has confirmed I got something right all those years ago. In another talk the ‘One Thing’ is, ‘Stand on One Leg’. I didn’t teach the children that. I’m trying it now, myself, each morning. It’s not easy. I hope it does some good.

The day before my eightieth birthday I went, in the morning, to a Requiem Mass for my very dear friend Bill Scott at St Mary’s Bourne Street. Bill was younger than me. It was a year since he died. He was, at one time, Vicar of St Mary’s. I first met him there. He had been my confessor following on from Fr Gilling, the previous Vicar, and another great priest. Bill had been a priest in Glasgow, a parish priest, chaplain to nuns and also Sub-Dean of the Chapel Royal.

I was wearing clericals. Bill would have preferred that. The service was wonderful and absolutely right for Bill. The music was perfect, Bach, Faure, Byrd, and the Voluntary at the end the Prelude from La Traviata, Verdi. The Preacher was Richard Chartres, former Bishop of London, who mentioned the Royal Representatives for the Queen, the Prince of Wales, the Princess Royal and Princess Alexandra.

The Bishop said, “There was never a wrong note. In this respect Royal service is a very severe test. Courts are full of temptations to pretence and gossip but Fr Bill from the kitchen to the drawing room to the throne room was unfailingly gracious and always the same to one and all. He was known and loved not as a courtier but as a priest first and last.”

And, he said, “Bill was a great priest, glad to be with God for the sake of the people he served and glad to be with people of all sorts and conditions for the sake of God.”

The whole sermon was, quite simply, good, as was the whole Service. After it I went to the Sloane Club for lunch with two friends. We’d been there, often, with Bill.

After lunch I walked back towards Pimlico and the Poule au Pot, all very familiar territory from my time at Christ Church, Chelsea. The stalls of the Pimlico Saturday Market were just closing down. I went to the bread stall. There was still some bread left, sourdough, and I mentioned to the stall holder that I was having people for supper in my garden the next day for my birthday. He said, “Happy birthday for tomorrow,” accepted five pounds, then gave me four loaves of bread and a large piece of chocolate cake as a birthday present. The customer standing next to me also wished me a happy birthday.

Feeling very good I decided to treat myself to a Black Cab to get home. The driver and I chatted. He mentioned that he was probably the only Black Cab driver in London who voted Labour. We talked politics and about life in general. I mentioned that it was my birthday the next day. When we arrived I went to pay and he reached up, turned off the meter, and said, “Happy Birthday.” I really should turn eighty more often.

The Day After

Thank goodness for my daughters! Well, also, thank goodness for my sons but on this occasion they were thirteen thousand miles away and it was my daughters who had not only coped with the supper the evening before but had also done most of the clearing up. And friends helped. Friends do. One had coped with the wine throughout the evening and had tidied up afterwards. I hadn’t needed to worry about a thing.

All this meant that the morning of the day after all I needed to do was to reflect on a very happy birthday, wonderful music from the Consone Quartet, very good food from Sally White’s, very good friends and then empty the dishwasher and fill it again. My daughters had done the work and had left everything stacked and ready. Then I went off to mass.

My swim was next on the agenda. I had forgotten this was the first day of easing of restrictions. I was no longer required to arrive at the Castle Centre, ‘dressed for my activity’. So I had my swimming togs (NZ) bathing suit/trunks (UK) already on, under my trousers, as I’ve become accustomed. At the pool I discovered I could now go to the changing room and no longer had to follow a one way system carrying my bag to the poolside. OK, so I’d forgotten the combination on my padlock for the locker and I couldn’t remember the system but nor could some of the others so we sorted each other out.

Everyone seemed in a good mood and we rather grinned at one another in surprise at the abnormal normality of it all. The day continued rather like that. Of course I’m still wearing a mask on the bus on my way back from the pool. Today the bus driver saw me coming and waited at the bus stop till I caught up. He was a regular driver on this route and has become used to me, I think, as a regular customer.

The sun is shining, people are friendly, and eighty seems a good age to be.