I swam today, 750m, alternating front crawl with breast-stroke. I wondered about the changing rooms. I am clearly not yet recognised as a regular. In a small seaside town like this, I expect it will be several decades before I am accepted.
I recall the changing rooms of the swimming pools I would visit with my father. His routine included a daily swim before lunch, and his fellow swimmers knew him well. Many were his patients, and, as well as deep debates about swimming technique, there would be impromptu consultations. I have no diagnostic or therapeutic skills, but my librarianship expertise is at the disposal of my fellow swimmers.
Those changing rooms were civilised, unlike those at school, a Gehenna of mud and sweat. The bigger boys took all the seats, leaving the smaller ones to try to change standing up, or to wait, in cold wet rugby kit, until they had finished. Masters would appear from time to time, linger by the showers, but show no interest in enforcing order or protecting the weak.
