By Mary Fisher, who was just posting on social media that she was off to the lido actually

OH, you swim? Oh. You swim at an indoor municipal pool. You have my pity, for I would not dream of taking the waters anywhere but a lido. 

To swim under a roof other than the bluest sky? It can hardly be termed swimming. Yes, the immersion in water for purposes of exercise bears some similarities, but that is the least of it. It does not have the freedom, the sensuality, of lido life.

I am, I confess, something of a lido connoisseur. A regular at all the major – meaning London – lidos, my boho-inspired crocheted swimwear is a familiar sight. Not that I’m showing off, I’m there simply for exercise and blessed cool.

Perhaps that’s what you think you’re at your little pool for, plowing up and down your lanes like mice in a particularly dull maze. The stench of chlorine as overwhelming as it was in the trenches of the Great War, and spirits no higher.

It could not be more different from the lido. Where spirits soar into the azure heavens. Where showers are taken in the open air. Where water beads on our tanned bodies reflecting rainbows onto the pristine white tile. You probably have athlete’s foot.

It’s not just London. I’ve visited all the major lidos in the south and even that Instagrammable one in the Peak District. My arching dive is a familiar sight. While at your pool you have a grubby pound-shaped keyring for your locker and get floating Elastoplast in your mouth.

Yes, I am truly at the apex of the aquatic hierarchy because I exclusively swim at the lido. What’s that? You swim at Hampstead Ponds? F**k, that’s better.