A Russian swimming team is staying in our hotel. Yet still I get pestered by small boys called Jordan about whether or not I’m going to be swimming each day.
Why would British people call their sons Jordan? It’s as if a bunch of fathers were drunk at their sons’ naming ceremonies five years ago, and opened a copy of the Sun for inspiration. They may have even stuck a pin in at random and by the probability of column inches and chest acreage, landed up with ‘Jordan’. Better than ‘Randy Vicar’ or ‘Monster’ I suppose. So from now on, I must behave like Clint Eastwood in ‘Firefox’. Must think in Russian:
Jordan1: “Hey Mister. Are you swimming later?”
Me: “Niet.”
Jordan3:”Hey swimmer-dude, are you in the pool today?”
Me: “Priviet. Niet.”
And yes, Jordan3 really calls me ‘swimmer-dude’.