If a butterfly flaps in a swimming pool.....

I may have already mentioned I have some time on my hands, and with such a great opportunity available to me I've been having a quick gander at me life, reflecting & ruminating what I want out of it, and other such soul searchy stuff that one never finds time for with a proper job, or even, any kind of job at all. And where better to reflect than in a mirror. Except, that is, if it is my mirror, which I am afraid to say, reflects back a rather podgier version of me than I wish to see. I would like to blame it on the mirror, claim it were a kind of reverse changing room mirror, you know, one of them ones that make you look all svelte, sleek and sexy whilst wearing a orange ruffled playsuit. “Darrrrling”, that mirror exclaims, “You look DIVINE! You simply must have this orange ruffled playsuit, hang that extortionate price tag, men will positively FALL at your feet and ALL BECAUSE OF THIS OUTFIT”.   But such mirrors lie. They LIES I tells ya. Barefacedly, unashamedly and with only a slight hint of glee. And while most of us can do with such a bit of positive reinforcement in our lives, unfortunately, my mirror is not one of these. My looking glass is honest and what its telling me right now, is get out there and exercise, lose some chub, and for gawds sake, do not invest in an orange, ruffled playsuit.

So exercise I must, and unfortunately running has never been for me. Every time I tried I ended just up channelling my inner beef tomato, by which I mean  after approximately 90 seconds at a light jog I ended up exceedingly red faced and sweaty. Even one of them lying mirrors would have a hard time trying to spin that into something positive.  And frankly, yoga has never been the same since that class at my local leisure centre, where every time I was starting to hit my zen, the chap downward dogging in front flatulated himself at full volume…. into my face. So what to do? Why, swim of course! Being the proud owner of both a gold life saving badge (there has never been a pair of self inflated pyjamas so well rescued) and a pair of goggles, it appeared swimming was the choice for me.

I’ll be honest, I have dabbled in the watery arts previously, and while the risk of fellow exercisers’ flatulence is much reduced (what harm can some bubbles do? It just introduces the post swim Jacuzzi a little earlier than anticipated) there is a problem of an entirely different nature which comes into play in the pool, namely that of Swimming Etiquette. Whether it’s side by side mother’s meetings in the slow lane, featuring two heavily Cath Kitson festooned yummy mummies discussing Tabitha’s latest pre-school achievements or Michael Phelps wannabes smashing up the fast lane, speed is always an issue. And I have had my fair share of run ins.

Let me take you back, back to my local pool last year, back to the medium lane to be precise. There I was, keeping my pace up, bobbing merrily along, merrily that was until the intrusion of a over testosteroned man with a point to prove and tight speedos to match. Whereas all my fellow swimmers and I were abiding the clockwise swimming laws of the lane, this man took it upon himself to invade the medium lane, butterflying up and down the middle at a non medium, Thorpedo-esque speed. May I just repeat that? BUTTERFLYING! At a FAST PACE! Now lord only knows, the butterfly is the most antisocial of strokes. As my chum Rebecca pointed out, all it displays is a wasted youth learning a pointless stroke. He was learning the butterfly while the rest of us were out drinking in parks and snogging behind the bike sheds, and doesn’t he know it. And while such a man likes to think he is displaying his Olympian prowess and wonder, the rest of us just think he’s a bit of an idiot, as we all drown in the tidal wake of his own self loathing and disappointment. Conversely, I myself swim a back stroke, I do so considerately, only very occasionally brushing against my fellow swimmers inner thigh in my backwards locomotion. And swimming backstroke, when a butterfly induced splashy tidal wave sweeps over me, I do get somewhat annoyed, once I have finished spluttering that is.

Two lengths went past and the tidal wave did not cease, four lengths, then six, all the while I was being drenched in his stupid wake, which let me remind you SHOULD HAVE BEEN DESTINED FOR THE FAST LANE! By lap eight the pool rage had truly set in. I got to the end of my lap, just before Mr Butterfly had started his non rule abiding, non clockwise excursion down the middle of the lane and I had had enough! I swam out to this man, nay in front of this man, furiously treading water to prevent his splashy departure, as I pointed out the implications of not only his choice of stroke but also his choice of lane. Needless to say it descended into a full scale row (all the while I continued bobbing with my furious treading of water) which culminated into his declaration he didn’t abide by lane etiquette as he swam at his ‘own pace’ and I was only jealous I couldn’t swim at his speed because I was ‘too fat’. Cue rage, indignation and my assertion of him being a piece of genitalia which I am far too polite to reveal here dear reader (though had no qualms about yelling so loud it ricocheted off the walls of the pool, across all 6 lanes!). And while I am ashamed of my descent into name calling, I am pleased to say Mr Butterfly was swiftly escorted from the pool by a helpful, and rather attractive might I add, male lifeguard. Victory was achieved for my now rather bedraggled self, as well as other swimmers (one old dear congratulated me both for taking him on, and for treading water so assiduously) and we could all now swim on in the tranquil manner that had attracted us to the pool in the first place.

Channelling my best 'dressed
like a condom' couture

But this incident exemplifies just how often swimming etiquette goes out the window, as well as some of the problems that may be encountered down ones local baths. Frankly, I am loath to encounter them again. Then again I am also loath to reveal to the greater public my tomato red cheeks, or repeatedly receive a face full of fart, so while the risks of swimming are great (or at least public rows in a pool), I fear they may be a small price to pay for a slightly less flabby bod. So wish me luck dear reader, cos I’ll be donning my swimming cap this summer, and woe betide any butterflyer disregarding the rules…. and don’t even get me started on heavy petting in my deep end.