"Washing your car?"

Ah, Sunday. Papers, relaxation, pottering. I love Sundays.

Today was a little different to usual. I normally wake up bleary-eyed, wondering what the hell happened the night before (if it's been a good night, that is) and asking the nearest person to make me a cup of tea, immediately, PLEASE.

Today I awoke on a sofa bed after a wonderful university housemate reunion, with a ginger kitty called Horris purring in my ear. We were leaving early to get back to London so I could attend yoga and go for a swim.

The Cyclist and I boarded the train in Sutton, full of bacon sandwiches and tea from our hostess's fine breakfast. We'd not had much luck on the way down from London, as we'd inadvertantly boarded a train carriage that contained the Spawn of Satan. A gaggle of middle-class teenagers had whined, shouted, brayed and squealed through the whole journey. One of them was called Paris. I wanted to smack Paris, a LOT. Severely obnoxious with a total lack of self-awareness is a winning combination for others wishing violence upon you.

As we boarded, I said,

"If Paris turns up on this train, I'll punch her in the babymaker."

Luckily there was no Paris. But there WAS an insufferable, pseudo-intellectual bearded idiot sat with who I presume was his girlfriend. Or if not, he definitely wanted to fuck her and was using smart-arse film references to get in her pants. Now I love a bit of culture, don't get me wrong. I will happily sit and talk about music and art and films. But hopefully I don't do it loudly on a train with a smug, self-serving tone. If I do, let me know yeah?

The Cyclist and I glanced at each other as he harped on loudly about some film and some other pretentious crap. A stream of spurious culture references spilled out of his mouth. I was dying to a) laugh loudly, b) take the piss out of him, and c) self-harm so I could concentrate on something else. I texted The Cyclist as I just had to vent.

"Oh my god Jonny Lee Miller was, like SO understated yah? When I was at The Globe, yah? Shut up you massive drama student TWUNT!"

The Cyclist read it on her phone and smirked, I gritted my teeth. The braying idiot, now using his Magnum lollystick to gesticulate to his poor potential Rohypnol victim, shouted, "So Sara organised dinner at The Globe!"

We cracked up loudly.

We had to endure the following conversation before the sweet relief of arriving at London Bridge.

"So me and my sister yah, started saying 'Your Mum' to each other! And THEN my Mum started saying it too! Fnar fnar fnar."

"Devotion breeds complacency then that breeds IRONY, YAH?" At this point him and his friend erupted into peals of laughter. The Cyclist and I met eyes and did that quizical "what the fuck?" face. I sat on my hands so I didn't go over and beat him to death with his own copy of Empire magazine.

Journey over, I managed to be in time for the yoga class and both No'rn Ir'on and I managed to get through the class without getting 'too relaxed' which I'd heard horror stories about. Afterwards we went for a swim. The normally quiet pool was manned by two dodgy guys sitting in the shallow end, who watched us walk from the changing rooms to the water while pulling faces like a sex pest. I didn't understand this, since looking at me in a swimming costume is something you Just Don't Do, like looking directly at the Sun, or putting foil in the microwave.

We began our lengths of the pool, avoiding Splashy McPervert who was hanging around in our general vicinity and inexplicably splashing halfway into the middle of the pool then swimming back again. I was concentrating on breathing and my stroke, when I passed No'rn Ir'on.

"Guess what just happened to me?"

I shrug. "The weird guy touched you up a bit in the deep end?"

"No. I did a lap of the pool before I realised my right boob was out."

I checked she wasn't at risk of being arrested for indecent exposure in a public family place and we swam to the shallow end. She looked wistful.

"I wish I was a mermaid sometimes."

I disagreed. "Nah, there's loads of things that would be impossible to do." I dived under the water and carried on my lengths. I passed No'rn Ir'on in the deep end.

"Like bungee jumping?" she suggested hopefully. I inhaled a litre of swimming pool water and tried not to drown whilst regaining my composure in 12'6" of water.

She was obviously considering it, as the next time we passed she ventured, "Washing your car?"

We luxuriated in the water at the deep end after the pool was vacated by the Special contingent, floating and chatting.

No'rn Ir'on: "I need to wee."

Me: "Oh."

No'rn Ir'on: "Do you think they have that chemical that changes colour if you wee in the pool?"

Me: "Only one way to find out...?"

No'rn Ir'on: "No, after swimming about with one boob out for a while, that's probably enough embarrassment for me for one day."