Our local leisure centre is undergoing a re-vamp. This news was sprung on us regular centre goers a week ago via an in-depth news letter which got very soggy in the bottom of my swimming bag, so that by the time I got around to reading it, it didn't make a huge amount of sense. Something about closing down this bit, changing that bit, digging up the other, replacing the doo-dah, and all the while ferrying swimmers, and gymmers and dancercisers hither and thither so we don't get in the way of the work men.
Well, I went swimming yesterday and my, it was a kerfuffle. Usually, it is through the turnstile at reception, around the cafe bit, through the corridor bit, into ladies' wet change, into the swimming pool, swim.
'Do you know where you are going to get changed?' said the receptionist as she swiped my membership card. Normally, this particular receptionist doesn't bother even looking at people, let alone engage them in conversation, but I guess they have been told to be nice to customers in order to keep us on-side during the 6 month revamp and stop us getting cheesed off and decamping to a different leisure centre.
'No,' I said, 'I thought I'd just follow the arrows.' And I pointed to the signs with arrows that were lining the walls in reception saying, 'Follow the arrows to temporary changing rooms.'
'That's right,' she said, and proffered a weak smile. I bet that hurt, I thought.
'And once you've changed,' she continued, 'you follow the arrows back again and enter the poolside via the little front gate in the cafe area.'
'Thank you,' I said, and left her to recover her breath after the sudden exertion of having to speak so many words in one hit.
I followed the arrows. Through reception, around the corner, then down the steps into Polar Adventure (don't ask). Actually, you can ask - Polar Adventure is the children's play area. It involves a multi-channel bumpy slide thing done up to look like a snowy mountainside, a ball pool, a net climbing cage, a carpeted play area etc etc and is covered in pictures of polar bears, penguins and moose all looking like they've had a tab or two of LSD. I've often passed by Polar Adventure and wanted to tell a member of staff that actually you wouldn't get polar bears and penguins in the same habitat, what with polar bears being North Pole creatures and penguins being South Pole creatures and that's why polar bears don't eat penguins and not because they can't get the wrappers off, but I don't like to appear pedantic and tell bad jokes.
On through Polar Adventure into the bowels of the centre, along this corridor, through that door, then along another corridor, all the while following the arrows. Eventually, having completed a pretty good pre-swim warm-up walk, I found the temporary ladies' wet-change area, which turned out to be considerable smaller than the main ladies' changing area. Got changed and then made my way back up through the labyrinth of corridors and Polar Adventure to the pool via the cafe. All without the aid of my specs and sense of direction. The place was swarming with workmen carrying bits of wood and buckets and tiles and other important building tackle, and it was very weird, like walking through a building site in my undies, so I did a wrap dress thing with my towel to preserve my modesty.
I had my swim, then trekked back through the cafe area, Polar Adventure etc etc, you know the route by now, only this time I was sopping wet, fuzzy eyed and lacking a sense of direction.
On the plus side, I covered about 1000 of my 10,000 steps per day in one swoop. The downstairs showers were much nicer than the upstairs showers, and I found a HUGE changing cubicle which meant I could change without the usual banging my elbows on the cubicle walls/door malarkey.
This state of affairs is due to continue until next March. But, having been brought up as the daughter of a builder, I know that this is an estimation in 'builder time' which bears no relation to real time. So add on another 3 months, then maybe a couple of extra weeks for glitches and we should be back to normal by next August. If we're lucky.
Showing posts with label Swimming. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Swimming. Show all posts
Wednesday, 21 October 2009
Tuesday, 30 June 2009
Big Blue Beehive or Smurf?
Having been a regular swimmer for well over five monthsnow, I find I have been accepted into the regular 7.30-8.30 swimming gang, and get to say 'Hello' to other members and pass the time of day. This also means I get to tut at people who are not regular 7.30-8.30 members who infiltrate our gang and hog valuable pool space, especially the rather large man who arrive this morning in bright yellow shorts and proceeded to plough up and down without regard for anyone else, fair freaking out poor Margaret by bearing down on her in a Titanic versus the iceberg kind of way.
'He should be over there,' shrieked Margaret after he'd mown her down for the umpteenth time and she waved at the far side of the pool that is roped off for fast lane swimming. We all sympathised and agreed and pumped the water from her lungs. There was an unspoken agreement that should this man reappear and continue his pool hogging ways we would rise up against him like a pod of dolphins, surrounding him and forcing him into the correct swimming area for those who water plough without regard. Ah yes, it's good to be part of a gang.
Anyway, one of the ladies in our gang arrived at the same time as me this morning and we walked through the car park together. Dot is probably well into her seventies, if not older and is a bit vague sometimes, but I bet she makes good jam.
I noticed she was wearing a top identical to one I have myself.
'I have a top identical to that,' I said.
'Do you?' said Dot. 'I bought it because of the flowers.'
'Me, too,' I said. 'I love clothes with flowers on.'
She leaned towards me, conspiratorially.
'Do you find your bosoms rise out of the neckline a little too far sometimes?' she asked.
'Yes, I do,' I said, because it is one of those tops that has a drawstring just under the bust line and if you reach up high, or lean forward, then bosoms can get marginally displaced and you have to do a bit of shovelling to get them back to where they should be.
'Ah, ' said my companion wistfully, 'but at least you youngsters can get away with it.'
I was in the pool first and had done a few lengths before Dot appeared. She was wearing a new swimming hat. It was quite the most magnificent swimming hat I have ever seen. Covered in bobbles, it was bright, bright blue and extended the height of her head by what seemed at least a foot.
'It looks like a Smurf hat,' I thought. And then I thought, 'Oh my goodness, what if she asks me what I think of her new hat? I'm thinking of Smurfs now. I don't want to blurt out that it makes her look like a Smurf. She might not even know what a Smurf is.'
I did a bit of quick thinking and decided that the hat also looked like a magnificent blue beehive, and if asked, that is what I would say. I swam up and down chanting 'Beehive, beehive, beehive,' to myself and trying to expunge all things Smurf-related from my mind.
After my swim I met Dot in the changing rooms.
'What do you think of my new swimming hat?' she asked, as she wrung out her cozzie and rubbed the bright, bright blue hat dry.
'It's like a magnificent blue beehive,' I said.
'Well, thank goodness for that,' said Dot. 'I thought it made me look like a Smurf.'
'He should be over there,' shrieked Margaret after he'd mown her down for the umpteenth time and she waved at the far side of the pool that is roped off for fast lane swimming. We all sympathised and agreed and pumped the water from her lungs. There was an unspoken agreement that should this man reappear and continue his pool hogging ways we would rise up against him like a pod of dolphins, surrounding him and forcing him into the correct swimming area for those who water plough without regard. Ah yes, it's good to be part of a gang.
Anyway, one of the ladies in our gang arrived at the same time as me this morning and we walked through the car park together. Dot is probably well into her seventies, if not older and is a bit vague sometimes, but I bet she makes good jam.
I noticed she was wearing a top identical to one I have myself.
'I have a top identical to that,' I said.
'Do you?' said Dot. 'I bought it because of the flowers.'
'Me, too,' I said. 'I love clothes with flowers on.'
She leaned towards me, conspiratorially.
'Do you find your bosoms rise out of the neckline a little too far sometimes?' she asked.
'Yes, I do,' I said, because it is one of those tops that has a drawstring just under the bust line and if you reach up high, or lean forward, then bosoms can get marginally displaced and you have to do a bit of shovelling to get them back to where they should be.
'Ah, ' said my companion wistfully, 'but at least you youngsters can get away with it.'
I was in the pool first and had done a few lengths before Dot appeared. She was wearing a new swimming hat. It was quite the most magnificent swimming hat I have ever seen. Covered in bobbles, it was bright, bright blue and extended the height of her head by what seemed at least a foot.
'It looks like a Smurf hat,' I thought. And then I thought, 'Oh my goodness, what if she asks me what I think of her new hat? I'm thinking of Smurfs now. I don't want to blurt out that it makes her look like a Smurf. She might not even know what a Smurf is.'
I did a bit of quick thinking and decided that the hat also looked like a magnificent blue beehive, and if asked, that is what I would say. I swam up and down chanting 'Beehive, beehive, beehive,' to myself and trying to expunge all things Smurf-related from my mind.
After my swim I met Dot in the changing rooms.
'What do you think of my new swimming hat?' she asked, as she wrung out her cozzie and rubbed the bright, bright blue hat dry.
'It's like a magnificent blue beehive,' I said.
'Well, thank goodness for that,' said Dot. 'I thought it made me look like a Smurf.'
Thursday, 30 April 2009
Tiny Squeezy Bottles
For my last swim or four I've had the feeling that something has been following me up and down the pool. Not in the manner of people swimming behind me, because that's what happens in swimming pools (apart from the idiot flailing man who cut across me this morning without so much as a hand signal, forcing me to stop suddenly mid-length and almost drown in the wake of 'excessive bobbing breast-stroke' lady) but in the manner of something suspicious being there, right on my shoulder so to speak.
On Monday, I worked out what it was. It was a balloon of air catching 'neath the derriere of my increasingly saggy swimming cossie! As I was swimming, the bottom of my cossie was gradually inflating, poofing up and causing a not insubstantial amount of drag. Climbing from the pool at the end of my 40 minutes was like dragging the Hindenberg out behind me. Time for a new cossie, methinks, I thought.
So whilst in town on Monday I found a plain black number in BHS for £8. I also popped into Superdrug and purchased 3 tiny squeezy bottles into which I planned to decant shampoo, conditioner and shower gel to save me having to lug full sized bottles to the pool for post swim de-chlorination.
'Look at these!' I said to Andy, showing him my tiny squeezy bottles.
'They are very cute,' said Andy.
'And the bottles?' I said.
'Ahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!' said Andy.
'I'm going to use them for shampoo, conditioner and shower gel,' I said, moving on swiftly from the dubious mire of double entendres.
'Given that your shampoo and conditioner are the same colour, how will you tell the difference between the bottles?' asked Andy. (He was being particularly good at asking the correct questions that day.)
'Aha!' I said because I'd already given this some thought pre-purchase of said bottles. 'You'll notice that the tiny squeezy bottles have different coloured lids. Pink lid. Blue lid.'
'Oh yes,' said Andy.
'I am going to use the blue lid one for shamPOO,' I said.
'Because it rhymes?' said Andy.
'Exactly,' I said. 'And the pink lid one for...er, conDINK..tioner.'
Andy stared at me. His eyes looked suspiciously narrow.
'Blue for poo and pink for condink,' I said, firmly.
'That doesn't work,' said Andy.
'It does in my mind,' I said.
'And the shower gel?'
'Well, obviously I would have liked Superdrug to provide a third colour option,' I said. 'Like yellow. For gello. But it's not a major issue.'
'So how will you tell which bottle has the shower gel in it?' asked Andy, who was growing a little weary of the conversation by now.
'Silly hubbie,' I said, ruffling his hair. 'The shower gel is orange.'
'That's all right then,' said Andy, and went off to crack open another bottle of nettle beer which, he says, has improved enormously now he's let it stand for the 4 days you are supposed to before drinking.
One last thing. I have reached a point in Indigo Antfarm ,Violet and Blue where I need to decide whether it is going to end in triumph or tragedy. Plot points need to be inserted now in order to prepare for the tidy up at the end. What I want to know is this: do you, dear reader, find a happy ending or a tragic ending more satisfying? Do I go down the 'Hamlet' or the 'Love, Actually' route? Andy reckons a tragic ending is more literary. I would go for tragedy because the characters are turning into a right nasty bunch and deserve to get their come-uppance. Also, I feel tragic endings give the reader something to think over, to philosophize about long after the novel has finished. A tragic ending provides lessons to be learned.
BUT...
...happy endings are deemed more satisfying to your popular fiction readership and would therefore create more commercial power (i.e stand more a chance of helping me earn a bit of money now I'm three-quarters of my way through my year out of teaching). Also, happy endings make you say, 'That's all right then,' and smile and stride forth into the world with the feeling that everything is marvellous and perfect and whatever life throws at us, we can handle. Happy endings show the rose-tinted life we all aspire to achieve because we think it will, in turn, make us happy.
So, tragedy or triumph? Literary satisfaction or a big wodge of cash? What do YOU think?
On Monday, I worked out what it was. It was a balloon of air catching 'neath the derriere of my increasingly saggy swimming cossie! As I was swimming, the bottom of my cossie was gradually inflating, poofing up and causing a not insubstantial amount of drag. Climbing from the pool at the end of my 40 minutes was like dragging the Hindenberg out behind me. Time for a new cossie, methinks, I thought.
So whilst in town on Monday I found a plain black number in BHS for £8. I also popped into Superdrug and purchased 3 tiny squeezy bottles into which I planned to decant shampoo, conditioner and shower gel to save me having to lug full sized bottles to the pool for post swim de-chlorination.
'Look at these!' I said to Andy, showing him my tiny squeezy bottles.
'They are very cute,' said Andy.
'And the bottles?' I said.
'Ahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!' said Andy.
'I'm going to use them for shampoo, conditioner and shower gel,' I said, moving on swiftly from the dubious mire of double entendres.
'Given that your shampoo and conditioner are the same colour, how will you tell the difference between the bottles?' asked Andy. (He was being particularly good at asking the correct questions that day.)
'Aha!' I said because I'd already given this some thought pre-purchase of said bottles. 'You'll notice that the tiny squeezy bottles have different coloured lids. Pink lid. Blue lid.'
'Oh yes,' said Andy.
'I am going to use the blue lid one for shamPOO,' I said.
'Because it rhymes?' said Andy.
'Exactly,' I said. 'And the pink lid one for...er, conDINK..tioner.'
Andy stared at me. His eyes looked suspiciously narrow.
'Blue for poo and pink for condink,' I said, firmly.
'That doesn't work,' said Andy.
'It does in my mind,' I said.
'And the shower gel?'
'Well, obviously I would have liked Superdrug to provide a third colour option,' I said. 'Like yellow. For gello. But it's not a major issue.'
'So how will you tell which bottle has the shower gel in it?' asked Andy, who was growing a little weary of the conversation by now.
'Silly hubbie,' I said, ruffling his hair. 'The shower gel is orange.'
'That's all right then,' said Andy, and went off to crack open another bottle of nettle beer which, he says, has improved enormously now he's let it stand for the 4 days you are supposed to before drinking.
One last thing. I have reached a point in Indigo Antfarm ,Violet and Blue where I need to decide whether it is going to end in triumph or tragedy. Plot points need to be inserted now in order to prepare for the tidy up at the end. What I want to know is this: do you, dear reader, find a happy ending or a tragic ending more satisfying? Do I go down the 'Hamlet' or the 'Love, Actually' route? Andy reckons a tragic ending is more literary. I would go for tragedy because the characters are turning into a right nasty bunch and deserve to get their come-uppance. Also, I feel tragic endings give the reader something to think over, to philosophize about long after the novel has finished. A tragic ending provides lessons to be learned.
BUT...
...happy endings are deemed more satisfying to your popular fiction readership and would therefore create more commercial power (i.e stand more a chance of helping me earn a bit of money now I'm three-quarters of my way through my year out of teaching). Also, happy endings make you say, 'That's all right then,' and smile and stride forth into the world with the feeling that everything is marvellous and perfect and whatever life throws at us, we can handle. Happy endings show the rose-tinted life we all aspire to achieve because we think it will, in turn, make us happy.
So, tragedy or triumph? Literary satisfaction or a big wodge of cash? What do YOU think?
Friday, 27 March 2009
Andy and Gym
Andy has joined the gym. He has been twice this week, both times after work which, given he has been late finishing almost every evening, is pretty impressive. He went last night.
'I nearly died!' he announces cheerfully, returning an hour later. 'I did running uphill but stopped just before I felt like I was going to collapse.'
'Good,' I say. I wonder if I ought to sneak along with him, just to keep an eye on proceedings and administer artificial respiration if needed. Should I make him have half an aspirin before he goes? Did he take his blood pressure pills this morning? It's a bit of a worry. Especially when he's so blase in his near-death proclamations.
I can't bear gyms. That's why I go swimming and walking and do gardening and dance around the kitchen when no-ones watching. I've had gym membership twice in my life and the longest I managed to survive was eight months. It's the pain, you see. You go along with your stretchy pants and oversize T-shirt and your trainers that make your toes go numb. You start on something gentle like the exercise bike. You pedal away for ten minutes, building up a sweaty glow and then a stick-thin gym trainer appears and says 'That's your warm up done. Now do another twenty minutes. And don't forget to warm down for ten minutes at the end.'
Another twenty minutes?? Then warm down??? How does one 'warm down?' Call me old-fashioned, but I used to 'cool down' which involved getting down , or rather falling off the exercise bike and lying very still on the floor until I'd stopped hyperventilating and felt less hot.
And then you're expected to do more! So you attach yourself to the rowing machine and slip and slide around on a seat that has been worn dangerously shiny from the thousand other bottoms that have slid up and down on it before yours. I confess I didn't mind the rowing machine, especially if it had a little electronic consul that showed you rowing across a lake or up a river past ducks and stuff. I didn't mind the step-machine either except for moments when the gym trainer would come along and change the speed and incline without so much as a bye-your-leave and you'd suddenly find yourself climbing Mount Kilamanjaro at fifty miles an hour rather than a gently hilly slope at three.
The cross trainer was invented as an instrument of torture during the Spanish Inquisition. It was outlawed almost immediately on grounds of extreme cruelty even then, and has only been reintroduced in the guise of a piece of gym equipment because someone found one in a cupboard one day and turfed it out because they needed the space for their doughnut stash.
And then the gym trainer starts suggesting you do a few muscle toning exercises which is basically where they make you lie on a rubber mat that smells of old shoes and stale Lynx aftershave and do abdominal crunches until you projectile vomit. They try and make it sound all cosy and fluffy bunny by calling them 'tummy crunches' but don't be fooled. They burn like hell. And that is your body's way of telling you NOT TO DO THEM!
After you've finished, the gym trainer says 'Well done (fatso), don't forget your warm-down stretches.' And you go, 'Are you mad??? I'm off for a shower and a mug of hot chocolate and probably a good half packet of biscuits. And if I still feel like poop-on-a-stick, I'll have a piece of cheese on toast too.'
So I'll stick to my swimming and walking and gardening and dancing, thank you. They cause me no pain and they let me think about writing whilst I do them rather than worrying if I'm going to be sick or break my legs.
Tomorrow we are going, courtesy of our free 'Kent's Big Day Out' tickets, to the Yalding Organic Gardens. I am very excited.
'Are you excited, Andy?' I ask.
'What? Oh, er...yes,' says Andy.
I would be more convinced if he wasn't stifling a yawn at the time. But perhaps he's tired from this week's gym exertions.
'I nearly died!' he announces cheerfully, returning an hour later. 'I did running uphill but stopped just before I felt like I was going to collapse.'
'Good,' I say. I wonder if I ought to sneak along with him, just to keep an eye on proceedings and administer artificial respiration if needed. Should I make him have half an aspirin before he goes? Did he take his blood pressure pills this morning? It's a bit of a worry. Especially when he's so blase in his near-death proclamations.
I can't bear gyms. That's why I go swimming and walking and do gardening and dance around the kitchen when no-ones watching. I've had gym membership twice in my life and the longest I managed to survive was eight months. It's the pain, you see. You go along with your stretchy pants and oversize T-shirt and your trainers that make your toes go numb. You start on something gentle like the exercise bike. You pedal away for ten minutes, building up a sweaty glow and then a stick-thin gym trainer appears and says 'That's your warm up done. Now do another twenty minutes. And don't forget to warm down for ten minutes at the end.'
Another twenty minutes?? Then warm down??? How does one 'warm down?' Call me old-fashioned, but I used to 'cool down' which involved getting down , or rather falling off the exercise bike and lying very still on the floor until I'd stopped hyperventilating and felt less hot.
And then you're expected to do more! So you attach yourself to the rowing machine and slip and slide around on a seat that has been worn dangerously shiny from the thousand other bottoms that have slid up and down on it before yours. I confess I didn't mind the rowing machine, especially if it had a little electronic consul that showed you rowing across a lake or up a river past ducks and stuff. I didn't mind the step-machine either except for moments when the gym trainer would come along and change the speed and incline without so much as a bye-your-leave and you'd suddenly find yourself climbing Mount Kilamanjaro at fifty miles an hour rather than a gently hilly slope at three.
The cross trainer was invented as an instrument of torture during the Spanish Inquisition. It was outlawed almost immediately on grounds of extreme cruelty even then, and has only been reintroduced in the guise of a piece of gym equipment because someone found one in a cupboard one day and turfed it out because they needed the space for their doughnut stash.
And then the gym trainer starts suggesting you do a few muscle toning exercises which is basically where they make you lie on a rubber mat that smells of old shoes and stale Lynx aftershave and do abdominal crunches until you projectile vomit. They try and make it sound all cosy and fluffy bunny by calling them 'tummy crunches' but don't be fooled. They burn like hell. And that is your body's way of telling you NOT TO DO THEM!
After you've finished, the gym trainer says 'Well done (fatso), don't forget your warm-down stretches.' And you go, 'Are you mad??? I'm off for a shower and a mug of hot chocolate and probably a good half packet of biscuits. And if I still feel like poop-on-a-stick, I'll have a piece of cheese on toast too.'
So I'll stick to my swimming and walking and gardening and dancing, thank you. They cause me no pain and they let me think about writing whilst I do them rather than worrying if I'm going to be sick or break my legs.
Tomorrow we are going, courtesy of our free 'Kent's Big Day Out' tickets, to the Yalding Organic Gardens. I am very excited.
'Are you excited, Andy?' I ask.
'What? Oh, er...yes,' says Andy.
I would be more convinced if he wasn't stifling a yawn at the time. But perhaps he's tired from this week's gym exertions.
Wednesday, 21 January 2009
Ear-wigging and thinking
It's amazing the things you think about when you are swimming. And it's amazing the things you hear, too. I've fallen into the pattern of swimming every other day, forty lengths first thing in the morning and I've found I have to take my notebook and pen poolside so when I have an idea I can write it down immediately rather than having to try and remember it for when I return home AND count my lengths at the same time(I find I get confused around the 16/17 length mark and have to do 2 extras at the end just in case I've miscounted). I don't know what other swimmers think about me bobbing in and out of the pool but then, without my specs, I can't see their faces, so I don't care.
I think it's the water. It's meditative. Many of my best ideas happen when I'm near water. Washing the dishes, in the shower, swimming, walking by the lake in the park, on the loo...(okay, maybe too much information there) but I do find when the wet stuff is flowing, so do the writing ideas. Like the other day, on length number 8, I had an idea for a story/book title. It was 'Indigo Antfarm, Violet and Blue.' I had a stern in-depth dialogue with my internal voice about that one, I can tell you.
'What's sort of a title is that to spring on someone?' I said. My internal voice shrugged. 'I dunno,' it said. 'You're the writer. I merely supply the ideas. That'll be a tenner please.'
'I refuse to pay for my own ideas,' I said. 'Come on, give us a clue. Who's the main character?'
The internal voice went very quiet at this point. Typical.
And then there's the domestic details I hear from old lady swimmers. Yesterday, for example, there were 4 old ladies swimming up and down in a line holding, from what I could work out, 4 separate conversations about the various shortfalls of their respective sons. They didn't shut up. Natter, natter, natter they went. It was non-stop. But I found out that Allan had a problem with a cat and a wheelie bin, David's wife hasn't a clue about boiling a pudding and she's STILL putting parsnips in everything, Jim and Freda took their mum to a Chinese restuarant for her birthday but she'd much rather have had one of those M & S 'dine at home for £10' meals, especially with her allergy, and Lily had her operation last week and did her son visit her? Did he heck. And it's all her fault (whoever 'she' might be).
It's all good stuff. And also, yesterday (it was a VERY productive writing day yesterday. So much so that I was still typing away when Andy got home from work and we ended up having masses of scrambled eggs and beans for tea which is okay as we have a backlog of eggs at the moment thanks to our industrious chicken girls but means that today I'm feeling a bit 'blocked' so a dose of syrup of figs might be in order and ...what? Too much information again? I do apologise) I had the urge to use some of my previous life experiences as fodder for a couple of short stories. And then I was flung into a bit of a dilemma. Would the people involved recognise themselves and sue me for defamation of character? No, not if I handle the content with sensitivity and respect. Could I get away with just changing names and appearances? Probably. Well, I just got on and wrote regardless. It was cathartic, if nothing else. Perhaps it could be start of my autobiography, I thought.
And then I sat and stared at 'Indigo Antfarm, Violet and Blue.' For a long time. And I still haven't got it. Perhaps I need to go for an extra swim.
I think it's the water. It's meditative. Many of my best ideas happen when I'm near water. Washing the dishes, in the shower, swimming, walking by the lake in the park, on the loo...(okay, maybe too much information there) but I do find when the wet stuff is flowing, so do the writing ideas. Like the other day, on length number 8, I had an idea for a story/book title. It was 'Indigo Antfarm, Violet and Blue.' I had a stern in-depth dialogue with my internal voice about that one, I can tell you.
'What's sort of a title is that to spring on someone?' I said. My internal voice shrugged. 'I dunno,' it said. 'You're the writer. I merely supply the ideas. That'll be a tenner please.'
'I refuse to pay for my own ideas,' I said. 'Come on, give us a clue. Who's the main character?'
The internal voice went very quiet at this point. Typical.
And then there's the domestic details I hear from old lady swimmers. Yesterday, for example, there were 4 old ladies swimming up and down in a line holding, from what I could work out, 4 separate conversations about the various shortfalls of their respective sons. They didn't shut up. Natter, natter, natter they went. It was non-stop. But I found out that Allan had a problem with a cat and a wheelie bin, David's wife hasn't a clue about boiling a pudding and she's STILL putting parsnips in everything, Jim and Freda took their mum to a Chinese restuarant for her birthday but she'd much rather have had one of those M & S 'dine at home for £10' meals, especially with her allergy, and Lily had her operation last week and did her son visit her? Did he heck. And it's all her fault (whoever 'she' might be).
It's all good stuff. And also, yesterday (it was a VERY productive writing day yesterday. So much so that I was still typing away when Andy got home from work and we ended up having masses of scrambled eggs and beans for tea which is okay as we have a backlog of eggs at the moment thanks to our industrious chicken girls but means that today I'm feeling a bit 'blocked' so a dose of syrup of figs might be in order and ...what? Too much information again? I do apologise) I had the urge to use some of my previous life experiences as fodder for a couple of short stories. And then I was flung into a bit of a dilemma. Would the people involved recognise themselves and sue me for defamation of character? No, not if I handle the content with sensitivity and respect. Could I get away with just changing names and appearances? Probably. Well, I just got on and wrote regardless. It was cathartic, if nothing else. Perhaps it could be start of my autobiography, I thought.
And then I sat and stared at 'Indigo Antfarm, Violet and Blue.' For a long time. And I still haven't got it. Perhaps I need to go for an extra swim.
Wednesday, 14 January 2009
Get Fit!
We live three minutes walk from a leisure centre. We often drive past and say 'We should go to the leisure centre and take some exercise, it's very convenient, only three minutes away . We could even walk there.' We did join the gym when we first moved here more than four years ago. I'm not keen on gyms so I lasted only as long as it took me to get tangled up in the cross trainer and fall off the exercise bike. Andy did slightly better but he's more tenacious when it comes to repetitive exercise. But even he fizzled eventually.
So on Monday I wandered into the leisure centre and inquired about a swimming membership. I can do swimming. Mostly because you don't have some eighteen year old gym instructor who is the size of a runner bean shouting at you and telling you can pedal harder, faster and longer when you know that if you do you'll fall off the bike and give up gyming altogether (see above). I asked about the financial aspect - all you can swim for £18.95 a month - the best times to come and swim and avoid having teenagers jump on your head - I was provided with a completely incomprehensible but very colourful timetable - and then I signed on the dotted line, handed in my attractive passport size photo for my membership card ('It'll be ready for you in a day or so) and went home feeling very smug that I was doing something to improve my fitness.
I was up and out the door at 8 the next morning, having shaved my armpits and checked my cozzie fitted. It was only slightly baggy round the bottom as I have lost a considerable amount of weight since I last wore it but not baggy enough to justify purchasing a new one. I just won't do any diving in, I thought. Off I went, bag packed with towel, undies, brush, shampoo and conditioner specially formulated to get chlorine out of your hair, talc (because no matter how much you try and dry yourself, it is a well known fact that swimming pool water is much wetter than any other kind of water), my spectacles case and a pound coin for the locker.
Once there, I headed for the changing rooms where there were a couple of large, old ladies, completely starkers, towelling off after their swim and discussing the price of novels these days. I avert my eyes and nip into a cubicle just as their conversation turns to the best way to cook mackerel.
Now, the biggest problem I have with swimming is that once I remove my glasses, everything becomes a bit of a blur. I make it to the poolside without crashing into anything, leave my towel and shampoo on the bench and get into the water. There are various blobs swimming up and down. Some of them are, like me, focused breast-strokers intent on doing their 30 or 40 lengths. Some swim in pairs, very slowly, chatting and getting in the way by veering unexpectedly to one side or stopping suddenly. There are a couple of blokes splashing like wild things and making dreadful grunting noises which don't sound quite right but I assume from the lack of response from the lifeguards that this is normal for blokes of a certain age and they aren't, as I thought, drowning.
I finish my 40 lengths. I get out, shower, hair wash, and leave feeling very virtuous. I get home at nine o'clock and feel like I could sleep for a couple of hours. I fight the urge and have a very productive day. I sleep well. I wake up this morning. With a stinking cold.
Keep fit? Pah!
(p.s I apologise for changing tense half way through this blog but I am feeling far too weak to go back and do anything about it. Ditto spelling errors...)
So on Monday I wandered into the leisure centre and inquired about a swimming membership. I can do swimming. Mostly because you don't have some eighteen year old gym instructor who is the size of a runner bean shouting at you and telling you can pedal harder, faster and longer when you know that if you do you'll fall off the bike and give up gyming altogether (see above). I asked about the financial aspect - all you can swim for £18.95 a month - the best times to come and swim and avoid having teenagers jump on your head - I was provided with a completely incomprehensible but very colourful timetable - and then I signed on the dotted line, handed in my attractive passport size photo for my membership card ('It'll be ready for you in a day or so) and went home feeling very smug that I was doing something to improve my fitness.
I was up and out the door at 8 the next morning, having shaved my armpits and checked my cozzie fitted. It was only slightly baggy round the bottom as I have lost a considerable amount of weight since I last wore it but not baggy enough to justify purchasing a new one. I just won't do any diving in, I thought. Off I went, bag packed with towel, undies, brush, shampoo and conditioner specially formulated to get chlorine out of your hair, talc (because no matter how much you try and dry yourself, it is a well known fact that swimming pool water is much wetter than any other kind of water), my spectacles case and a pound coin for the locker.
Once there, I headed for the changing rooms where there were a couple of large, old ladies, completely starkers, towelling off after their swim and discussing the price of novels these days. I avert my eyes and nip into a cubicle just as their conversation turns to the best way to cook mackerel.
Now, the biggest problem I have with swimming is that once I remove my glasses, everything becomes a bit of a blur. I make it to the poolside without crashing into anything, leave my towel and shampoo on the bench and get into the water. There are various blobs swimming up and down. Some of them are, like me, focused breast-strokers intent on doing their 30 or 40 lengths. Some swim in pairs, very slowly, chatting and getting in the way by veering unexpectedly to one side or stopping suddenly. There are a couple of blokes splashing like wild things and making dreadful grunting noises which don't sound quite right but I assume from the lack of response from the lifeguards that this is normal for blokes of a certain age and they aren't, as I thought, drowning.
I finish my 40 lengths. I get out, shower, hair wash, and leave feeling very virtuous. I get home at nine o'clock and feel like I could sleep for a couple of hours. I fight the urge and have a very productive day. I sleep well. I wake up this morning. With a stinking cold.
Keep fit? Pah!
(p.s I apologise for changing tense half way through this blog but I am feeling far too weak to go back and do anything about it. Ditto spelling errors...)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)