I have, at last, braved the swimming pool.  I swam in Mallorca this summer but it was the knowledge that I would never see the slightly unsettled Germans and Spaniards again that gave me the courage to bare my stump, plunge in and then haul myself out and back to the sun lounger like a very determined, rather elderly, walrus.  That, and the clear blue skies and temperatures in the 90s.  I’ve been less eager to get up in the dark and go back to early morning swimming at the sports centre. I finally did a trial run, accompanied by my sister-in-law for moral and physical support, and somewhat to my disappointment, found it pretty manageable.  I have no more excuse to stay in bed the extra hour.  The combination of crutches and wet floor can be scary, and when I hop from the bench to the locker I feel like the de-legged knight in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.  But when I’m in the water, it’s like I’m once more complete.