So, one of the many things
you may not know about me is the fact that, ahem for my sins, I was brought up
a Catholic. I munched on the dusty Jesus wafer aged 8, went to convent school
complete with it’s wholly (or should that be holy?) unflatteringly uniform, got
taught by nuns, the whole shebang. And among the many things I picked up in my
time, apart from the fact that maroon is a very unfortunate colour for a Celtic
ginge to be wearing for the best part of five years, is that Hell is a Very Bad
Place (Fact TM St Anne’s Catholic high School for Girls, 1991-1996) However, in
recent weeks, my entire concept of hell has been turned upside down, and let me
tell you why….
Indoctrination dictates
that Hell is a place full of bubbling brimstone and spewed fire, in fact a
state of, according to Catholic catechism, ‘eternal fire’. Now, as a smoker,
this might be useful, after all I never need worry about losing my lighter ever
again, however I have discovered my now lapsed Catholic definition of hell is a
much wetter place to be, for it is no further than my local swimming pool
changing rooms.
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| Vomit or a recently deceased canary? YOU DECIDE |
I don’t know what it is
about these eternally damned cubicles that gets my goat so, well actually I do,
so please excuse the diversion before I get to ranting. For they should be, if
not a heavenly place, then certainly a damn near euphoric place, what with
being the home of respite and transformation post a good exercise session. Not
so! After all, since when has heaven featured such delights as abandoned hair
extensions, indeterminable cubicle stains, discarded plasters (band aids for
the Americans out there) and the stench of rapidly multiplying mould spores?
*Gaks* My local swimming pool has featured all of these recently, and much, so
much more (Clissold Leisure Centre, I’m looking at you *points finger*)
Let us take one of my
particular bugbears, that of over sharing. No, I’m not talking nudity, I am as
indifferent to the sight of an aged bosom swinging pendulously through the
changing room as anyone else – it’s a changing room, nudism is on the cards,
and justly so. No, it is more the concept of treating the changing room as
one’s personal (grooming) home from home. Whether it’s shaving pubes or legs,
clipping toenails or fingernails, I’ve seen it all in them there showers and am
astounded & disgusted in equal measures every single time. Why on earth do
people think this acceptable? No one wants your cast off body parts sluicing
over their tootsies in the communal showers! Darn it, I barely want my own, let
alone anyone else’s pubic hairs nestling between my toes as I dechlorinate
myself.
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| Nancy, happy to help... Also, happy to smear crap on walls |
And the mess! Oh the mess!
From Nancy from ASDA’s ID card (she would be happy to help if she only had her
name badge to remind her but she’s left it in the changing room), to abandoned bags
of facewipes / sweets/ crisps littering the grubby floor. And forgive me, for I
am about to get started on the stains, stains which I can only liken to what
one might otherwise see down at one’s local Ebola walk in clinic. Stains in the
showers, stains in the cubicles, stains on the floor. I dis-stain them all. And
stains of such a multi coloured hues I am only left in wonder from which
orifice they could have possibly been evacuated from. Brown ones (natch), grey
ones, black ones, red ones, yellow ones, I swear Dulux could make up their next
line in
As for the oft ignore sign
declaring ‘we check this changing room every hour, please report any problems
to reception’, yeah, good luck with that! The last time I pointed out to
reception that they appeared to have employed a time travelling cleaner, who
has marked off their cleaning slots until 5pm (it was midday at the time), it
was met with the ubiquitous British customer service shrug, topped off with a
side order of blank stare.
So what to do? Well I
could join a local, high-end private gym. It’s an option, but a pricier one. I
could shower at home, but I don’t favour this as an option, considering that
it’s now well into wintertime and I am not an admirer of a soggy, cold 20
minute bus journey home to my own shower (albeit in my own scuzz as opposed to
someone else’s). So what’s left? Well, I guess my only option is to get myself
some Ebola couture and invest in a hazmat suit cos I’m continuing my swimming,
come hell, or quite literally, high water. So if you see an angry ginge in a
space outfit down at Clissold, don’t be afraid, unless you’re trimming your
pubes in the open showers, in which case, mind where you put your clippers.
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| It's the latest thing in changing room couture dontcha know |
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