Every Tuesday at 9.30am, we gather on the slipway and strip to our swimsuits with the lack of inhibition that emerges naturally from close friendships. There’s Linda, who dreamed of being a ballerina but ended up in pension finance. Meena, who told us she lived in Syria and we all felt sorry for her, until she explained it was the name of her house. There’s Jean, who writes poetry by day and picks-and-packs at the Avon warehouse by night, and Anne, a chef at Wagamama whose menopause patches have never really hit the spot.

We are Primark and Prada, waxed and hairy, claim benefits and work in the C-suite, and we pray to many gods. But none of that matters, because when we plunge into the cold, fast flowing water, after a sharp intake of breath, a unifying calmness envelops us and we surrender to a glorious rush of endorphins. We swim, float, and chat. We talk about caring for elderly parents, ask just how many more coffee shops do we need on the High Street, and ponder why there has to be another bloody upgrade on the phone? Our bodies turn pink as raw salmon and everything we say makes us laugh or sigh or tut as one.

We swim, we get high, and we giggle.

We are everyone, but we are not men. Our Facebook page extolls the virtues of cold-water swimming and, below the photo of us all grinning in bobble hats and dry robes, it declares ‘All welcome!’. It’s just that men don’t come, and we don’t mind that.

Except for this Tuesday. We are in various states of casual undress when our chit-chat stops mid-sentence. A newcomer approaches. A man. There’s the briefest of moments when we are still and silent and hold our shape before we fracture. Hands instinctively move, grabbing towels and clutching at half-removed garments to cover cellulite, blotches and sagging tits.

Linda shivers as she remembers celebrating the end of O-levels round the back of the Aquarius Disco with Robbie Turner, swearing to this day that she had said ‘No!’. Meena scowls and tuts loudly, cross with herself for falling yet again for a ghoster on Match.com. Jean holds her breath like she used to when her father pulled back her bed covers and the acrid smell of his breath made her nauseous. And Anne smiles with her mouth but not her eyes, wondering what she’s done wrong that her married lover won’t leave his wife.

‘Hi!’ The man sounds apologetic, shuffles his feet, and keeps a respectful distance.

It’s not all men, we tell ourselves.

The river sings its burbling song, summoning us. Like fish we reform our shoal but the shape of us is – ever so slightly – altered.
‘Hello,’ we say, and smile.
‘May I join you?’ he asks.
Of course, you’re welcome!’ we say. And we mean it, even though we all know he will bring his mates next week.

We swim. He gets high, and he giggles.