Month: January 2025

Mary looks formidable but she’s clear about the rules of the fast lane and is careful to stick to them so l am an inevitable fan. She carefully gives way, calculating arrival times and making sure there should be no overtaking necessary. I did feel it was a bit rude of Mr. Jones therefore, to attempt to overtake her in the last half foot of the pool. Admittedly she had slightly miscalculated, but only by a few inches. And it’s against the rules.

He is “Mr. Jones” because he’s the kind of older man who plays things just a shade too aggressively. As Joyce commented later in the changing rooms, the clue is in the name: leisure centre. There are a set of men I regret to say, who do not like to be out-paced by a small middle-aged woman. Usually the smell of their aftershave, a hovering fug above the pool, lasts longer in the fast lane than they do.

They typically insist on going first in the lane and they never give way despite the increasing desperation of their splashy, terminally inefficient attempts at front crawl. Most often they manage a few lengths and then slip away under the floating plastic barrier, stretching it over their heads, not conceding defeat but no longer able to catch their breath.

Mr. Jones had a really good try, switching up from breaststroke to front crawl when it became very clear that I was catching him. And then on my 29th length of 30, he did admit defeat. Rarely have I pushed off into my next length with such glee. He had worn himself out trying to keep up with me. I took my triumph with me to the steam room where a small Chinese man was doing rigorous exercises, each movement accompanied by a forceful exhalation. I waited until he had gone before allowing myself a giggle. By that point I was untroubled by the man in the corner who had no head, obscured as it was by the steam.

I would have preferred to have no head in the changing rooms as I’m not always able to rely on the neutrality of my facial expressions. I usually go for one of the two cubicles to get changed but they were both occupied so l had to change alongside Joyce. I am puzzled by the scarcity of cubicles, but also by the frequency with which other swimmers choose to change in the fresh air when one is available. Joyce was reminiscent of Hyacinth Bucket in appearance and had more than a dash of lilac about her. I thought things were going quite well. I had got most of my clothes back on which was a relief and we were talking about the weather. That led on to the temperature of the pool (we don’t swim like Olympic swimmers so the pool should be warm – suitable for a place of leisure, clue is in the name).

And then it came. The comment. I’ve recently been reading a book about the Vrba-Wetzler report that came out of Auschwitz-Birkenau so the details of her point of reference were fresh in my mind. Even if they hadn’t been, what she said would have been something to choke on. And she followed up with the comment that perhaps she shouldn’t have said it because you can’t say anything these days, rather than because comparing a spa to a concentration camp is ignorant and inexcusable. I won’t spend time wondering what she might say if she felt free to really speak her mind. Her words were still sitting there on the air.

“I don’t believe the temperature is really 28. it’s like living under the Gestapo”.

Actually, that should be Jonny Only Pants which might just be enough to tell you everything you need to know. I had enjoyed my swim, navigated the politics of the fast lane but had been denied my hot tub bubble. I suspect different people respond to the question of how many is too many in different ways, and of course, in a hot tub not all are equal. I’m a “three’s your max” kind of person. Three is bordering on uncomfortable. They are quite small hot tubs and it does depend on the relative sizes of the other bubblers. Length of leg is a key factor and sometimes I take a risk by assuming someone will get out soon. It is particularly uncomfortable if too many people get in after me. I don’t want to seem huffy and get out immediately but knees touching beneath the bubbles is unacceptable. 

So today I rejected the four-in-a-tub option in favour of the steam room. I’m not a huge fan. I find the steam hurts my nose so I end up mouth-breathing which I just don’t like all that much. The steam room is generally but not always quiet. I had just settled in, breathing carefully when Jonny No Pants joined me. He was close enough in age to me that I hoped being friendly would not be misconstrued but in channelling the spirit of Paul (absent again today), I embarked on conversation. I was not astonished to learn that Jonny’s favourite television programme is an SAS survival show that I hadn’t heard of. I’m not sure we are aiming high enough in the pool and spa. I did not think that Jonny’s survival skills were robustly exercised although I may have been mistaken.

I was surprised to be told that he had forgotten to bring any of his swimming kit and was just wearing his pants. The plan was to dry off in the sauna – no need for a towel. I was becoming more convinced that he really did possess the resourcefulness needed for survival. If we were stranded together in the wilderness he would be ill-equipped but he would make it through just fine, no problem. Resourceful, you see. You can hire a towel at Vallantyne’s but where’s the challenge in that? I had not paid any attention to his loins prior to his revelation and was grateful for the of obscuring steam to avoid any further unwanted revelations. It was time for me to leave. 

I have an alternative name for Andrew: Andrew Autist. I’m reasonably confident that he’s autistic. He really likes airports and is particularly interested in budget airlines. He is planning to visit every football stadium in Scotland. I think he said that there are 22. It seems to me that there’s something inescapably admirable about having that kind of bucket list: if you’re into Scottish football stadiums, go for it. I think it will make you happy.

We are almost exactly the same age and he is one of my favourite people to talk to at Vallantyne’s. He makes me feel like he really enjoys our conversations and hopes I do too (whilst being aware that I am married and we are friends). He notices and expresses appreciation when I remember something he has told me before and clearly makes an effort to do the same. It feels like he’s invested in our conversations. It seems like he’s trying pretty hard to keep it going, asking me more about myself than others tend to. He’s always ready to make the effort.

Today it was especially quiet at the pool. I was there a bit earlier than usual and Paul wasn’t there, nor Marc. Just the lady who thinks I swim elegantly, and Andrew. It was nice to have the fast lane to myself although the new rules should mean that, however many swimmers there are it should now be eternally civilised (alas The Twonks – see later).

l’d had a lingering headache for a few days but the cool water with softened glints of sunshine soothed it. Once in the hot tub with Andrew all was calm and peaceful. A couple of weeks ago I saw him sitting there and I deliberately avoided him. l’ve felt guilty ever since. It does require some effort but it is always worth it. He will invariably make the effort to talk back and leave me with the sense that my hypothesis is right: it does make a difference when people are friendly.

As l’ve already mentioned there are rules in the club and the signage at Vallantyne’s is one of my most favourite things. There are signs everywhere and they are frequently updated and added to. I think there is a Cream Cracker Under the Setee woman (Alan Bennett’s Talking Heads. I studied it for my’ A levels and have never forgotten the feelings that story made me feel). She evidently writes regularly requiring the clarification of many of the rules throughout the club, resulting in frequently updated and extended signage.

I enjoy both the rule itself and the backstory that must go with each sign. It’s an exciting day when a new sign is spotted, and a highlight of the week when it’s not just a new rule but a whole new set of rules. Multi-bullet pointed and prescient, the new one today addresses a hot topic.

In fact it also explains the removal of a casual, ineffectual and out of place note that was previously fixed to the board indicating which direction to swim in the fast lane. Previously, a perfunctory “Please allow faster summers to overtake”. Not any more. We now have a new sign expounding “Fast Lane Etiquette”. It’s a bit shouty in places. We are NOT to use flippers or paddles if there are other swimmers. We are NOT to overtake except at the ends of the lane. Slower swimmers MUST give way to faster swimmers at the ends of the lane. All swimmers MUST be competent, and there must NOT be any stopping mid-lane. I knew those ladies standing half-way down and having a chat were in the wrong, however friendly they seemed.

From now on, I can look pointedly at the sign. Our sign. The one that determines the politics of the fast lane and proves me to be in the right. I am always righteous: careful to give way, though I don’t have to very often, obviously. There are frequently those who do not pay such careful attention. I may write to the management to seek clarification on whether, in the case of a slower swimmer failing to give way, l am then allowed to overtake mid-length, with of course due consideration for other swimmers which is also why, you will be pleased to know, I NEVER BITE THE WOGGLES.

It all starts with Paul. He is a regular that’s for sure and we all miss him if he’s not there. Fortunately that’s rare. When he is absent, I look around at the mostly familiar faces, the majority of whom are not far off twice my age at a guess, and hope that even though Paul’s not there everyone will still be friendly. He is the one who sets the tone.

He’s said hello to all of us, I think. You can watch him at it and l do. Spotting a new person, he’ll carve out an opportunity to say hello. By the time l surface after my next length they are mid-conversation, and I’m not entirely sure how he’s done it. l’d say he’s in his mid-70s and may have politics that sit at a distance from my own but which are never a problem because you’re just there for a quiet swim and a friendly chat, although I’d imagine he’d be ready to engage in a discussion if you wanted to and he’d be on the lookout for some common ground upon which to walk together.

He is chiefly a walker, though he sometimes puts his head in for a few swipes of crawl. His pattern is to walk a bit, then have a dip in the cold bubbles along the side of the pool just below the hot tubs, then take another turn in the pool. He is exactly the right amount of friendly: unassuming and ready with his recall of what I have told him about myself before.

My grandad was like that. At 97 every phone call saw him carefully going through each family member, remembering their past cares and current struggles. Paul’s like that too. Asking about the kids, looking up tickets for Katie Melua because I’d told him I like her music. I felt I’d let him down a bit when I had to tell him I couldn’t make the date.

I love to watch him walking through the pool. A wave here, turning to have a quick chat there, a smile and a hello to me. It was Paul who first made me notice how much more cheerful l feel after a conversation with a stranger compared with the quiet of a solitary swim, which is what l always think is all I want. It has been his example I follow in making some simple and somewhat inane remark to whichever person joins me in the hot tub. Sometimes they don’t want to talk, but if they do that’s all it takes. That’s how he does it, I suppose.

And because Paul did it I now do it too and here you are, meeting him. So I’m not the only one: his influence is spreading.

We are a predictable bunch you might think, until you start talking to us or allowing us to talk to you. Inevitably there are those who just want to swim in peace, bubble quietly and slip away. At times I am one of them. But it is when I welcome conversation that the unexpected happens and l go home with my mood lifted, the gloom rising above the industrial estate through which I drive on my way home.

So I invite you to come in with me, beyond the veil of showers and into this extraordinary and eventful world.

There are rules though. We’re not here to laugh at those we will meet, even though they are sometimes funny, surprising, absurd, ridiculous. We will not be laughing at them because they are us and we are them. You might laugh, but you will be laughing at yourself. Oh yes, and there are some other rules too.

I hope you enjoy your visit.