It’s 7 a.m and the temperature’s building. All our winter weather wishes have been granted and you could cook an egg on my head. You could also make pea soup with the swimming pool as, chameleon like, it’s taken on the hue of all the greenery that surrounds it.The spirit of the pool is a total bastard: a chlorinated Caligula who demands daily rituals and offerings of exotic potions with promises of azure clarity in return but, on a whim, decides opaque green is more suitable for high summer. I am now rolling my sleeves up, having the right to bare arms, and I’m going to sort out this recalcitrant pool if I have to suck out every drop with a straw and paint them individually with clear blue beautiful stuff. Leaves are green and pools are blue. Ready or not, you fucker, here I come.