Oasis of calm

At the local swimming-pool, various sessions throughout the week are reserved for the exclusive use of women, schoolchildren, naturists, beginners, GP referrals, naturist GP referrals, youths, water-polo players and early risers. Because I happen to be none of these things, the only sessions open to me until recently were the so-called public swimming sessions, which can be a bit like Clacton on an August bank holiday before the war.

It’s been many years since a birthday conferred extra rights and privileges on me. But now that I’ve turned 50 years of age, I qualify to enter the pool during a lunchtime slot in the new swim timetable called ‘50 plus’. Naturally, I wouldn’t touch it with a bargepole. A vital, active, young-at-heart person like me doesn’t need cosseting in some feeble council-sponsored equivalent of burial at sea. I continued instead to fight my way up and down the pool during the public swimming sessions, regarding the shaded squares on the swim timetable signifying ‘50 plus’ with contempt.