Went for my swim. I can hardly bear to recite the subsequent events. I don’t mean the sauna and the ice plunge and the shower: but the terrible moment afterwards, when believing myself to be alone, and feeling buoyant and pleased with life, it seemed to be a good idea to practice ballet moves round the changing room. I have not done ballet since I was about ten, and hence can hardly be considered an expert: what the cleaner thought when she emerged from the shower she had been quietly polishing to discover a fat naked old person pretending to be Darcy Bussell in front of the lockers I can only imagine. She is Polish so I doubt that her English would have been adequate to do complete justice to the occasion anyway. Regrettably I think it is unlikely that she will be discreet about the event either, as I was snootily middle-class to her about the lack of loo roll in the Ladies’ yesterday. I have now got to choose between missing my very nice swim for a week or two, which will probably not be enough anyway, or braving the smirks of the athletic and patronising youths on the desk tomorrow night. I am considering a disguise.
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John tells me that Danse is French for Dance – and I thought that the whole episode must have traumatised you so deeply it had affected your fundamental being and caused dyslexia.
Look on the bright side – the experience was probably worse for the cleaner – you have seen you before. And don’t worry about the demi-gods on the desk – no words in English or Polish would have sufficed………..
Danse Macabre is a piece of music written by Saent Saens, where all sorts of hideous creatures crawl out of their graves and dance…