The Timetable

I found myself last night staring at a noticeboard in dismay. There is a proposal to change the swimming pond timetable at my baths club.

No more long, languid Monday and Wednesday evenings of men-only swimming. We are to have a trial period of three months of mixed evening-bathing.

Is this the end of civilization as we know it?

They that were lost are found!

O happy day! They that were lost are found!

Regular readers will know that I swim at the Arlington Baths Club. It is a wonderful and highly particular Glasgow institution.

It works like this: I go in to swim, give my baths number to the attendant who hands me commodious bath sheet and towel, I pick up my trunks which are hanging on my own numbered peg and go off to the slipper room to pick up the Flip Flops of Glory and make my way to the changing room, with its big armchairs and newspapers. After the swimming, the trunks get flung into one of the many washing bins and are laundered by the elves in the basement so that the whole procedure can begin again afresh on the morrow.

There was real trauma last week. I went in. I gave my number to the attendant who handed over commodious bath sheet and towel and I turned to my own numbered peg and saw nothing there.

My peg was denuded.

My peg was bare.

The days in between then and last night have been filled with speculation as to why my own skimpy black swimming trunks should have been removed by a nefarious person for their own ends whilst everyone else’s seemed to be present and correct.

However, diligence and a short prayer have resolved the matter. It turned out last night that this was simply a case of the trunks being hung on The Wrong Peg.

Joy is restored. Rapture abounds.