The Lido

thoughts on bodies from a south London pool side

On Friday morning I went to the lido.

My little boy had recently been with his dad and had subsequently taken a shining to swimming outside. I mean- who can blame him? What isn’t to like about the promise of a cool body of water on a balmy Friday morning. It’s the definition of holidaying at home! Visiting a lido with my little boy is one of those living-in-a-city activities that I see, read, or hear people doing and think “god I’d love to do that!” and never do, but this week- I was that person! I did the thing! Made a booking a week in advance and felt like the cosmopolitan mother I am desperate to be! That is us!

The last time I was here it was in a different chapter of my life. Pre motherhood, same sticky mid-summer weather that covers your body in warmth like suncream, same clumsy breaststroke and the same critical mind that spills with thoughts about being in swimwear.

Swimwear.

As I sat in my bikini, a striped beach towel as a sarong, a heady panic in noticing unshaven hairs and angry-cloud-like bruises from my current employment as a human climbing frame; I decided to go in.

I can't wear a towel in the water.

Does it matter that my bikini fits one boob more than the other?

Why can't I have normal matching boobs?!

Sisters Liv, sisters not twins!

No wait, that's eyebrows.

But being at a lido does something to you.

It peels off self consciousness slowly like a plaster, and you realise, it doesn't matter here. It shouldn't matter anywhere, but especially here.

This place feels like a reminder of what the body is and not what it isn't. The lengths it can swim, the life it can hold, the water it can feel and the life it can bring. Swollen pregnant bellies floating on the steps and freckled, lined skin and silver hair, concealed with a cap gliding up and down in lanes. The power of a body.