After much cleaning of boat and laundering of clothing we headed to the pool to cool off. Repetitive electric fiddle music blared out as we approached and John groaned at the possibility of a water aerobics class, but no a wedding reception was in progress on the restaurant terrace above. Down at pool level it was business as usual, Mums chatting, young girls sprawled in the sun, young men throwing one another into the pool and a rash of ankle biters being thrown around the shallow end by Dads and Grandads. It is a large enough pool to easily absorb all of this, so we had a lovely swim and sat out drying with our books. John noticed a large reel of extension cable standing a few yards from the pool, plugged into the mains. The good news was there was an electrician, the bad news was that he had been on the same health and safety course as the charmed ladder climbers. Again nothing came of the dual with death. A couple of childrens’ entertainers, a man and a woman dressed in matching jeans and braces made a good fist of keeping an assorted bunch of very dressed up kids away from both the pool and their parents. After a couple of hours the duo were looking a bit jaded and called in the storm troopers, who descended from on high dripping sequins and read the riot act. We were very decadent and had a chilled glass of wine, then carried on alternately lounging and swimming.

I have already described the stunning backdrop to the pool, which is immaculate and peopled with very fit looking individuals. We think a number of them are the crews from the Superyachts taking a break from all their polishing. I have not mentioned the parade of new swimming costumes. When it comes to poolside fashion bums are the new black. Swimsuit legs are on the rise, with modesty taking a sudden and sometimes startling plunge. The new cut ranges from a cheekily exposed extra slice of curve to a triangle barely covering the basics, but the trend is to high, wide and handsome. Even a one piece with a most unassuming front exposed a nearly bare behind. The young women look lovely, but this is high fashion and it is taking no prisoners. Granted the overweight are ignored on principle, but no quarter is given to the nobbles of cellulite or the elephantine wrinkles of oft tanned old age. There are sights not for the faint hearted, particularly when viewed from the water below. Young children with bottoms too tiny to support the cut are reduced to waddling along with ducktails of fabric sticking out behind them, cute but strange. So far the Skipper has seemed oblivious to it all, totally absorbed by my Joanna Harris book, ‘Peaches for Monsieur the Cure’. Perhaps it was a subliminally motivated choice of reading matter.