One afternoon, I was in the changing room at the local swimming pool when I overheard a conversation in the stall next to mine:

– OK, now Billy is going to put on his swimsuit, said an old woman’s voice.

– NO, GRANDMA FIRST! squeaked a kid.

– Well, all right, first Grandma, then Billy, okay?

– Okay.

There were some shuffling noises, and then:

– GRANDMA, YOUR UNDIES ARE UGLY!

– Hem, no, they’re not ugly, Billy, they’re regular undies. Be nice, now.

– NO THEY’RE UGLY!

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– AND THEY STINK!

– Billy, what’s the matter with you! My undies do not stink! I put them on clean this morning, like I always do.

– NO THEY SMELL LIKE FISHIES!

I was trying not to laugh out loud, since they could have heard me as easily as I them, but it was difficult. After I finished changing, I couldn’t resist hanging back in the common area to get a peek of the fearsome Billy and his presumably sheepish grandmother.

I waited a few minutes, then the lock clicked open and, wearing a bulky black speedo and holding a grey towel in his hand, an old man appeared. He looked at me, slightly startled to see me staring – behind him, the changing room was empty –, then he lowered his head and slowly set out for the showers, dragging his flip-flopped feet on the blue and white tile.