I feel I should explain to my many readers at home and abroad the reason I took so long to get in the sea, thereby having “The Dryman” appellation bestowed upon me for posterity . This was because my beach attire, once I had taken my torn, faded shorts off, consisted of a less than natty pair of ‘pouch’ style underpants, frayed at the edges and worn so thin they were to all intents and purposes see through. The prospect of cavorting in these skimpy shrargs in front of a half dozen freshly made aquaintances, all wearing the latest cut and fabric with designer labels prominantly displayed, was too hideous to contemplate. Of course, when I did eventually get in the water, when everyone’s attention was taken by a nearby jellyfish, I had to stay in for an inordinate length of time because coming out was even more fraught with potential embarassment. As anyone who has ever worn this particular breed of undergarment in the water knows, it behaves like cling film when wet!

I must put on record, though, that I had three pairs of pouch underpants left over from the 80’s or 90’s, or whenever it was that blokes tended to wear such repulsive things, which I took to Spain to use instead of swimming trunks (the general idea being that instead of having a tan that stopped mid thigh I would have one that went a bit higher). Two pairs were in tolerable condition and could at a reasonable distance have passed for “Speedo” swimming costumes as sported by ageing French lotharios and younger East Europeans; the other was as threadbare as an old church tapestry. It was just my bad luck that on the day in question the more presentable ones were wet.