Chlorine

I am now getting used to living in a City, an inner city area of a city.

Fundamental things are just double checking that doors are secure, not leaving anything outside that is not firmly bolted down or otherwise has its own foundation and being a bit wary about picking up miscellaneous litter even though a well developed sense of good citizenship demands it of you.

That does paint a bit of a picture of insecurity and secularisation but in fact the relocation to the City has been a tremendous thing on many, many different levels. It is just a bit irksome that I did not think about doing it a decade or more ago.

I now have everything on my doorstep whereas in the suburban area recently vacated it took a car journey or long and tedious walk to get anywhere to do even the basics of everyday life.

The supermarket, in fact a choice of three, multiple free to use cash machines, a Post Office, excellent Chippie, baker, butcher and if you really need it, no doubt, a candlestick maker are all to hand. That is even before really exploring the new neighbourhood and its other delights behind eastern European language shop fronts, aromatic ethnic food stores, coffee shops, bars and bistros.

There is just not enough time to get around the surrounding streets, dwell on corners, gawp into shop windows and sit at a pavement cafe sipping a latte whilst watching the world go by.

I am at a stage in my fledgling status as an inner city dweller when I am just inventing a task or mission which takes me out and about for the sheer novelty and pleasure of being a part of the hustle and bustle. In a tenuous excuse I have ventured out to buy a ridiculously pricey cup cake, a newspaper, two bicycle tyre inner tubes, a dvd, a pair of socks and to cap it all I won two prizes out of a purchase of 5 raffle tickets at a Methodist Church Street Fair.

Life just does not get better than that and all within 200 metres of my house.

Day or night I will set out to the supermarket, through the narrow cut-through where I am on speaking terms with a large and mainly grumpy Staffordshire Terrier, to acquire a whimsical bunch of leeks, a packet of ready mixed batter or a bar of chocolate but only because I can. I do of course get dressed and wear stout shoes because, and rightly so. Tesco's do have a ban on shoppers in their pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers as has previously been a regular sight in the Metropolis.

All of my immediate needs are therefore more than adequately serviced in my new environment.

What more does a man need?

Well, at 6.25am yesterday morning I set off on foot , a bit bleary eyed down the street with my tactical gear bag over my shoulder.

At 6.28am I pushed the button on the pedestrian crossing over the main approach road to the City Centre and 1 minute later joined the back of the queue at the Swimming Baths.

I was excited to be joining the ranks of the early risers at the Municipal Pool.

It is a beautiful building from 1905. High vaulted and skylight glazed above the azure waters (although backlit at that time on a winters morning). The layout is one of those that was commonplace in my early years with the changing cubicles on the actual pool side so that those unwilling to part with 20p for a locker can just leave the door open and keep an eye on their clothes and towels.

It was a bit of a scrap to get a place in one of the swim lanes and I assumed a slow pace in the wake of two large ladies who were actually surprisingly swift in gliding through the water whilst engaged in a range of conversational topics. They stopped at the end of each length as though to summarise their discussions and I could get past or at least for a short time.

Enthusiastic and stylish crawlers and full head immersion breast strokers in goggles ensured a good level of movement of the waters surface and in between trying to catch my breath I was regularly and resoundedly slapped in the face by turbulent chlorine infused waves. Each one completion of a length by me meant they passed me four times. 

My route from deep to shallow end became more and more indirect and erratic as further swimmers joined in the adults only session.

I soon reached my target of 10 lengths, a deliberate test distance to see how lungs, arms, legs and very un-web like fingers would cope with a new form of exercise. I was genuinely exhausted as I hauled my body up the stainless steel ladder onto the poolside.

The others in the pool carried on towards their own personal goals and imagined glories.

I was back home by 6.58am tucking into two shredded wheat, a pint of tea and a spoonful of peanut butter scooped straight from the jar before any of the family were even stirring from their slumbers.