Tuesday 4.45 pm New Zealand time.
This morning J and I notched up our 6th swim for April at Hataitai Beach. That's two above our monthly-four quota that we set for ourselves for the cold months. When we get out of the water in the colder months, we both get such a buzz of triumph over a job well done.
J insists that we not put a light t-shirt on top of our bathing suits until, at least, May. We're not wimps, she insists. At least, she insists that she isn't a wimp. I'm not too sure about me.
When J and I swim, especially in the winter when we sort of just lazy breast-stroke swim side-by-side across the bay and back again (and again, and again), we conduct what we call 'committee meetings'. In other words, we talk. About all sorts of things. J has a collection of hilarious stories and happenings that have happened to her. I try to rival her odd and weird anecdotes, but I just can't compete. I spend most of the swim in hysterics, chortling so loud at her stories that I can surely be heard across to the footpath.