Early swim

Early swimming this evening: because once a week the hallowed chambers of the PamperMe Wellness Whole Person Loveliness Spa prostitute themselves to a dreadful activity called Bums And Tums from eight o’clock onwards. It is a sort of underwater line dancing, where middle-aged ladies (no men, inexplicably) expose their cellulite to the bored gaze of some smug youth with abs and shorts and wallow around the pool to the strains of a Sixties Hit Parade CD dragged out weekly for the occasion

I would sooner wear a dead goldfish on a string round my neck than make the sort of phone call which goes: “Hello, I would like to join Bums and Tums and firm up my flab, please.” I would rather wear long-sleeved dresses and Firm Control PantyHose. I would sooner flop and slap and wobble for my whole life than allow some patronising twenty-year-old symbol of virility to supervise me flapping my batwings in horrible synchronicity with lots of other ungraceful old ladies. And so I went early so I could slope off out of the way before it all started.

Except that early turned out to be the last moments of the time when children were still allowed. They had all vacated the pool and were at the stage of being shoved unceremoniously by tired parents into clothes and shoes before they were quite dry.

I am not very good at children. In my soul I am with the dog in his fixed opinion that if they really can’t be ignored they should be eaten: but I am trying very hard not to turn into a miserable sour-faced old boot: which is an ever-present danger when you drive a taxi. So when I got there and discovered the usual uplifting serenity of the changing rooms demolished under an onslaught of shrieking gnomes and wet scolding mothers I was completely dismayed.

This sort of thing requires an enormous effort on my part, I have got the sort of face that decorates itself with a grumpy scowl unless I pay close attention to it, a bit like the Queen: and it was very hard to maintain my features in an expression suitable for a friendly old lady. One small curly-haired fiend kept shrieking: “MUMMEE I NEED A WEEEE”, which she was being obliged to ignore due to having her hands full of a very small wagging baby: and another misfortunate lady was trying to distract a whining toddler with sweets which she immediately spat out leaving a horrible sticky splat on the immaculate floor tiles, and another child, with all the appeal of the house elf in Harry Potter, sat on the bench in front of my favourite locker, kicking his feet and glaring and picking his nose.

I undressed very hastily and fled for the topaz tranquility of the pool, and five lengths later they had all disappeared. Half a dozen cleaners rushed in with buckets and mops and polish and reassuring fluffy bathrobes and towels, and within ten minutes the customary blanket of muffled hush had descended once more. I floated dreamily in the pool being very content to be alone in the world. And I was early: so I had got a lovely long evening stretching out in front of me to sit quietly in my taxi afterwards and read my library book and maybe listen a bit to Radio 4. Peace had descended upon my soul.