KEY POINTS:
For most survivors of Auckland's dank, wet winter, the early signs that summer is on its way are cause for great excitement. The real heat in the sun's rays, the longer evenings, the sniff of a barbecue in the neighbourhood being dusted off and lit again.
But for women the arrival of summer has a nasty sting in its tail. Specifically the fact that we have to be seen in our togs.
The awful realisation that once again we must do something about the forest at the top of our legs which has sprouted luxuriantly over winter.
That our winter weight loss efforts were minimal and our togs still cut into our bum causing an overflow we are mercifully unable to see.
I was having just one of those moments the other day at the pools.
I was so sure no one I knew would see me so early in the season that I simply grabbed my old training togs, ignored the forest, donned my red swimming cap and goggles and dove in for what turned out to be rather a long swim. I studiously ignored my reflection in the changing room mirrors because the thing to do when you are in your togs is pretend that you can't see yourself.
That way you have no idea of the horror you are inflicting on those around you and can stride confidently to the pool, remove your towel and lower yourself in with an expression on your face which says "I am nobody, do not give me a moment's attention".
By the time my swim was over I had almost forgotten I was in my togs. I felt positive about life as the exercise endorphins raced around my brain.
Which was when I spied the hot pool and decided that it would be a waste not to indulge.
As I launched out of the main pool and strode confidently over to its inviting bubbles, swim cap in place, goggles perched precariously on my forehead I had not a care in the world.
But then as I threw myself into the bubbling hot mass doing a very good impression of a beached whale I suddenly saw him.
A friend, a colleague and a man of considerable grooming who, had he found himself in possession of an upper leg forest, would have removed it at the seedling stage.
He was fully clothed and wearing sunglasses inside. No togs for him today. No equal footing for me today.
Had I seen this man in a cafe I would have stopped for a chat.
Had I seen him at work I would have been more than happy to pass the time of day. But not today. Not in my togs with a cherry red swimcap.
I ignored him and hoped he would ignore me.
And then I submitted to the long wait which all women in togs have endured at some time.
The one where we find ourselves in the blanket coverage provided by a bed of water when an entire rugby team joins you, or an old boyfriend from school days, or worse still the old girlfriend from school days who used to be plump but now seems to have taken up body building.
You are confined by common sense and vanity until these people leave. There is nothing for it but to sit it out which in my case meant getting so hot that I longed to take off my plastic swimcap which was frying my brain but reasoned that there was still a 1 per cent chance this man was not waiting to offer me some plankton, and if I took it off he might then be forced to recognise me.
Finally he was gone. I was entering the first stages of heat exhaustion but managed to extricate myself, check that my daughter hadn't drowned during the long soak of my humiliation and made for the showers.
"Oh dear God I cannot think of anyone worse to clock me in my togs" texted my friend.
"Who wears sunglasses inside?" said my husband diverting the talk from any discussion around body issues. I booked a bikini wax.