They have shut the gate to repaint the bottom of the pool, and from here the blue is a rumour under tarpaulin. I came anyway because the walk is the same walk and the kiosk still sells the harsh tea. A sign says they are matching the old colour. I do not believe them, and I do not mind. Matching is a kind of grief with a brush in its hand. If you were here I would argue, happily, about whether a lido is a public good or a private feeling we are allowed to have in public. The paint smell is already doing its work. Tell the others I am well, and that the closed gate is not a metaphor I am willing to force. It is a gate. The swim will return when the blue has decided.#
This is an excerpt. The complete piece is in the print and digital edition of Issue 02.