I've always been in two minds about sitting by a pool. And now I've no weekend left. Balls.
I've always been in two minds about sitting by a pool. After laps, between non-committal dips, and at a scantily-clad barbeque, I can certainly understand, but on all other occassions, my thought process finds so many more optimal places to park yourself to absorb sunshine, read magazines, sleep and consider Beyoncé (this is a legitimate and time-allotted activity - today's fun fact that she has an ever evolving butt).
At Valentin's place in sleepy Bonifacio, though, one was so immobile after the world's most generous breakfast he and his family prepared, the paralysing sweetness of his French bulldog, and that furious ball of fire in the sky, that vegetating to the hum of a pool monster and cheap TIME magazine papercuts (seriously) doesn't seem so ridiculous after all.
As it would seem, this was step two in learning to relax: tricking your body into thinking you've done some incarnation of exercise (Just Do It) or even made the effort to leave the property and fashion up along the town's main strip of breezy eternal Summer stores - or the ridiculously expensive ones down by the super yachts - (flouncy neoprene skirt), and hiding the fact that you got home in the early hours of the morning after Bastille Day fireworks down by the port (reflective eyeballs). Colourful bracelets are optional, but significantly augment the positive effects of all aforementioned.
And just as I start, we're back to square one. It's the eve of Monday. I need to get myself together.
See you bright and early, Sara-bear!