Kay and Simon and I went on a holiday to Lanzarote in January 2005. We stayed in a villa that had a pool. I think people who have their own swimming pools are the luckiest people alive. Our holiday was the first time in my life that I joined this gang.



So, the pool was very small, maybe only ten metres long. But it was big enough for swimming little lengths, or riding an inflatable alligator that we found, or just floating and bobbing, staring at the strange desert plants that grew in the rocky garden.

The water was heated, although the pool would still have been too chilly for those of less hardy dispositions, it was good enough for me. I swam every day, rain or shine, sometimes when the water was warmer than the air above it. I wore my whole repertoire of swimsuits and bikinis, and sometimes I swam naked too, for the naughty and funny thrill of it.

When I wasn't in the pool I liked to look at it. The reflection of light on water is one of my favourite, most meditative sights. It's the image I think of when a dentist is working on my teeth or a medic is sticking a needle into my arm. Still, clear water in which to immerse one's body.



A pool of my own has been a dream for as long as I can remember. I think my garden is big enough, although it would have to be highly-heated or covered in some way because of the climate in London. The upheaval involved in having my own pool is something that makes me shiver with anxiety, as does having to make a decision about style or shape. Of course it would be a phenomenally expensive exercise too. After all of that, what if I found that I liked public pools better? Could I ever turn into one of those people who has a pool but never uses it? What if I became bored? What if my pool became the graveyard of local rats and foxes?