I've been swimming regularly at a hotel near the beach for about two and a half years now. At first I was going a couple of times a week, but recently (after being given a keyring with a little one-pound-sized token on it that finally removes the excuse of 'I haven't got a quid for the lockers, I may as well stay in bed') I've been going a proper three times times* a week.
A couple of people asked recently if I've lost weight, and after departing the hotel this morning I finally thought to myself, 'do you know, I think they might be right'. It had been a good forty-minute swim, and so, glowing with health, and feeling just a teensy bit like I had proper actual swimming muscles, I smiled benevolently at the world and took a deep breath of fresh cornish air.
At which point the button on my shorts popped, said garment sinking immediately to just above my knees.
In the distance, a cow mooed, mournfully and with a trace of fierce regret. An ambulance drove past, very slowly.
I am home now. I do not think I will go out again.
* I won't amend this mistake, especially for Dave.