I can’t swim. I mean, I can, in the way that most children born on the coast must. But swimming is not a choice exercise for me. I was the annoying kid at school who claimed I had an infected tooth, or a migraine that conveniently began with gym class and ended there too. However, despite what I might think of myself, I’m not in reality that good of an actress and I have difficulty lying, thus every attempt to skip swimming class was met with a whistle blow and me in togs and a swimming cap. And just to rub salt water in the wound I became the cautionary tale to all small school girls who put off fitness, because I was still gasping for air during my third lap while everyone was drying off.

This is my long winded and slightly vague explanation of why I am conveniently walking around a pool with no sign of contact with the water. Because, no matter how beautiful the Shelly Beach pool in Sydney looks, I have too much respect for the locals to make them lag behind me while I try to perfect the sequence of removing head from the water’s surface and then taking a breath. I’ve learnt from experience that screwing up this sequence delivers a series of consequences ie. almost swallowing a bandaid and/or a mouthful of water.