Me the Swimming Pool and the Man in the Shower

I went with my family to visit the grandparents during the Easter holidays. The weather was pretty poor so indoor activities like scoffing chocolate, watching TV and sleeping were the main pastimes. Suited me fine. One morning though, in a rare fit of energetic enthusiasm, we went swimming, at a nearby leisure centre.

Inside the changing rooms we had a slight problem with a locker that wouldn't lock. We're a family of six; we were using two large lockers but one of them had jammed and the coin was stuck inside. I didn't have another coin. It was no big deal but I had to ask a member of staff for help- a lifeguard in a yellow polo shirt and red swim shorts, like the star of Baywatch, if it was filmed in Gloucestershire. But David Gloucesterhoff couldn't help. He had to call someone else on a walkie-talkie to come and fix it. So it turned into one of those, you know - one of those things. My wife and the kids headed into the pool while I sorted it out.

Eventually the locker was locked and I prepared to join them in the pool. Having been left responsible for all locker-related business, I was now sporting two locker key wrist bands, one on each wrist. You know the ones - like cheap, plastic watch straps, designed to conceal the sharp, metal locker key and prevent it from scratching and causing injury. The straps are made from sharp, abrasive plastic which ironically scratch and cause injury. If you pull them too tight they pinch the skin rather painfully as well. Once in place however, they make you feel like you're wearing some kind of Batman wrist gadget - especially if you wear two at once, as I was.

So now I was Locker Man, the middle-aged, balding, pale skinned, out of shape, semi-naked super hero whose special power is unlocking lockers.

Just before I entered the pool there was a shower area where signs instructed me to shower before entering the pool. Why? I didn't need a shower. I'd showered only an hour or two before. I wasn't covered in mud or filth of any kind. I wasn't radioactive either, as far as I knew. What's more I was about to get into a swimming pool containing enough chemicals to justify an investigation by a United Nations special envoy. And I was Locker Man. I could do what I want.

But I showered again anyway. I didn't want to appear unhygienic. Didn't want people to point at me and run out of the pool screaming because the dirty man was about to get in.

I didn't mind actually. I knew the pool would be cold and the shower was hot, so I was happy to linger for a bit longer - but that's when I was approached by one of the pool managers - fully dressed. He'd already smiled and said hello from a distance but now he was heading straight for me.

"Did you used to be on TV?" he asked.

I was a bit taken aback - not by the question, that's fairly common and doesn't bother me - it was more the situation. I felt slightly vulnerable. I wasn't completely naked. I was wearing swim shorts but I was still under a shower - having a shower. He was wearing a suit and tie, leather shoes and a coat. It didn't seem to bother him and he moved closer. He was within close range now. Close enough to get wet - but that didn't seem to bother him either.

"What programme was it?" he persisted.

I answered, trying to remain polite, thinking he'd quickly move on but he didn't. He wanted to shake my hand now. So he moved even closer. Water was splashing all over his clothes and shoes and he was shaking my wet hand. He was practically in the shower with me.

I don't want to sound ungrateful. I'm pleased he was interested in me enough that he wanted to shake my hand - but he kept on shaking my hand and wouldn't let go and now I really wanted him to leave me alone. It was just too awkward. I wanted to join my wife and kids in the pool but instead I was holding hands with a fully dressed man in a shower, talking about Saturday morning TV from 20 years ago.

In the end I had to make a run for it. I yanked my hand from his vice-like grip, leapt out of the shower and headed for the pool shouting, "Nice to meet you!"

But he wasn't giving up. He wasn't going to let me get away that easily. He was hot on my heels, telling me about his own family and how they used to watch the show. Standing pool side while he described fond recollections was all very well but he was wearing clothes and I wasn't; the effects of the hot shower had worn off and I was cold and starting to shiver. There was only one means of escape; an uncharacteristic and sudden dive into the pool. Splash! I was in. His muffled voice was barely audible above the bubbling in my ears as I swam as far as I could under the water.

Safe at last. But no. He dived in after me. Swimming behind me, fully clothed; still going on about Andi Peters and Ed the Duck. I'm not a fast swimmer. Ed the Duck who's not even a real duck is a better swimmer. It's the breathing thing. I've never really mastered the breathing thing, so I still do breast stroke with my head out of the water, like some elderly folk and young children do. The sodden manager caught up with me easily, even swimming in a suit and coat. And now he wanted an autograph. Not for him. For a relative. He was waving a pen and a soggy bit of paper.

I was left with no choice. I looked around. No one was watching. Thankfully my kids were at the other end of the pool with my wife, happily playing, so they didn't see. They didn't see me push his head under the water. They didn't see me holding it there, while he kicked and struggled, still gurgling about Peter Simon's Double Dare, Phillip Schofield's hair colour and Swing Your Pants. It took all the strength I could muster to keep him under the water. My face showed no emotion. No sign of what was happening. I even smiled at my kids across the pool in the distance.

I felt a bit bad. It was Easter after all but it was his fault. He'd brought it on himself. He'd crossed the line.

In a hygienically protected area, where you are forced to shower before entering a heavily chlorinated swimming pool, he wore outdoor shoes.

The dirty bastard.

Don't mess with Locker Man.

Me, the Truth and the Checkout Girl

Recently I had a weird encounter with a supermarket checkout assistant.

I say weird. Actually, she was doing the normal checkout thing and I was doing the normal customer thing. That is, she swiped goods across a barcode scanner while I put them in plastic carrier bags (I know! I forgot the 'bags for life'... again - but I do use the carrier bags as pedal bin liners, so saving on the unnecessary use of proper pedal bin liners - if that makes it any better? At least when the bags are stuffed full of household rubbish they are less likely to get stuck in a dolphin's blow hole - unless we're talking about a dolphin with an abnormally large blow hole).

Anyway you're familiar with the supermarket routine, I'm sure. All fairly normal and not particularly weird. Although, to an alien race that do their shopping by inhaling consumables through their bottom nostrils, that situation would of course be weird. (Sorry to go back to blowholes again) But to me at that moment everything was fairly normal. Until she started to ask questions.

"How are you today?" she asked, smiling.

I was tired. I'd had a late night, the night before and I was probably a bit hung-over. I was grumpy about being in a supermarket on a Saturday afternoon. I was hungry and thirsty. I was slightly anxious about still having to buy a birthday present for someone before I could go home and I was in need of the toilet. I was slightly anxious about the economic climate and how it might affect my own financial situation. I was fed up with the recent spate of cold and wet weather and I was slightly depressed at the daily news of death and disaster in the numerous unjustified and unnecessary violent conflicts around the world. A friend of mine was having domestic problems. Several pending jobs at home were playing on my mind. My wife was under pressure at work and my teenage daughters were in the middle of mock exams. The general mood in the house was tense.

So I replied, as you might expect.

"Fine thanks", smiling back.

I assumed that would be the end of it. That's the normal deal with complete strangers. Polite question. Polite answer. Polite smile. Thank you and goodbye. But she persisted.

"Done anything nice today?" still smiling.

I wasn't sure. Had I? It had been a lazy morning - which is kind of nice after a late night but for me that comes with the flipside of being slightly frustrated that I've missed out on a chance to do something else and wasted valuable weekend time. Having said that, I shared some fun time with my two boys, beaten and humiliated on a Wii game and I'd enjoyed my breakfast and a refreshing shower. In a world where millions of people don't have access to fresh water and others risk death from starvation, those two things in themselves were definitely "nice" but at that moment, having spent the last hour or two wandering round a dull and uninspiring retail park with an overcrowded car park and stressed drivers, I was placing household goods and packaged food items into unpleasant guilt inducing orange bags.

So I replied, as you might expect.

"Er... not really. Just shopping" smiling weakly.

Surely that was the end of it? I don't want to sound like an unfriendly git, too busy to share a few pleasantries with a bored supermarket employee but she'd crossed a line here. This was getting personal. And it didn't stop there.

"Going out tonight or having a quiet one?" more smiling.

What!? Why did she need to know that? Why did she want to know that? What did she mean by "a quiet one" anyway? How quiet is "a quiet one"? Is it sitting naked in furry slippers in a padded room on a sheepskin pouffe wearing ear defenders? Is that quiet enough? It certainly sounds appealing but that wasn't my plan that evening. (Although one evening soon now it will be). What if I say that I'm going out? Will it lead to more questions about where I'm going, what I'll do and who with? I had no plans to go out anyway. I'm an honest person. I find lying impossible. Even to total strangers. So I had to tell her the truth.

"Oh... just a quiet one" no longer smiling.

My mind started racing. "Damn! Why did I have to tell the truth? Now she thinks I'm really boring. Now she thinks I'm going home to watch Dancing on Ice and stuff my face with two-for-one Twirl Bites". I don't know why I should care whether she thought I was boring or not. I didn't fancy her. I wasn't trying to impress her. I didn't even start the conversation. I was just trying to pack my shopping as quickly as possible and get the hell out of there. Now I found myself having to justify my answer.

"I had a bit of a late one last night actually" pathetic smile.

Now I was talking like her. "Bit of a late one"? Instead of a few drinks and nibbles with fellow middle-aged friends at their place, which is what it had been, suddenly I was making out that I'd been necking absinthe and snorting cocaine off a pole dancers tits until the early hours. What the hell was I doing!?

That was it. That's when I snapped. Something went "Ping!" and I pulled out the gun. I told everyone in the shop to get down on the floor. The shop went silent apart from the incessant hum of electronic equipment and everyone lay down on the ground with their hands behind their heads as instructed.

"Nobody move and nobody gets hurt".

My tone was forceful. They knew I didn't want to use the gun but it was clear that if pushed I would kill them all. I'd had enough of the questions and I needed to get out quick. This was my only means of escape. I pointed it at the checkout girl.

"This is your fault!" I shouted.

"If I'm caught and arrested and sent to prison and my wife becomes a prossie to make ends meet (if you'll pardon the phrase) and my kids are forced onto the streets as pickpockets and drug dealers, you're to blame!"

She smiled sweetly.

"Are you collecting the school vouchers?"