I once led a 20-women skinny dip into the sea, off the coast of Italy. It was a proud moment, marred only slightly by the realisation that it turned out to be illegal in Italy. Ooops. Skinny dipping was on my bucket list; spending time in an Italian jail, or any jail, most definitely was not. We had all gone down to the beach for a midnight picnic, just near a café we had been to during the day. It turns out there was an elderly man who acted as night security guard at the café and it was he who ran down to the shore waving and shouting as 20 Scottish women shrieked with laughter as we bobbed about in the sea, wearing not a stitch. Even in the semi-darkness you could tell the guard was torn between enjoying the spectacle and panicking at the possible consequences. Fortunately, he didn’t call the police, but the next day word had obviously spread amongst the café staff as there was much nudging and sniggering when we arrived for lunch. I think I enjoyed our brief notoriety almost as much as the skinny-dipping.
When some of the skinny-dippers are together we sometimes reminisce about this incident if we’re feeling nostalgic. I should mention at this stage that they sat about for hours talking about it but never actually moving. So, while we’re reminiscing, you’d think I’d at least get credit for leading the charge? Do you think they mention I leapt up and stripped with abandon, calling them to arms? Do they remember that I kicked off my knickers then spent a few moments twirling them around my finger in true burlesque fashion while making a ‘this is how you get your kit off’ speech? No. All they remember is I crashed into a sun lounger as I broke into a run and nearly went arse over tit before I even reached the sea.