(This journal entry isn't mirrored, because.... well it's a bit shit really)

When I can't go running I go swimming. I don't like swimming as much as running because let's face it, swimming is a bit boring. All you do is go up and down, up and down, up and down. My stroke isn't great either. I do the breast stroke, but I don't do it particularly well and I don't go that quick. I hate not being good at something but in this case I've learnt to accept it, swallow my pride and stick with it. I am a determined swimmer though, what I lack in technique I make up for in stamina. When I go (1-3 times a week) I swim all-out for an hour, only briefly resting to stretch my neck (which really begins to hurt) after thirty minutes. Aside from that 45 seconds respite half way through, I don't stop. I often want to stop, but no matter how strong the urge is, I don't. As my arm muscles burn and I get a nostril full of water I think of anything I can to take my mind off the fact I want to stop. I focus unflinchingly on the clock, breaking the hour down into fractions and counting as the various milestones I've set tick by. I end up passionately hating the clock so then I focus on my technique and try and swim more efficiently. That rarely bears fruit so I study the water as it breaks and dances in front of my nose. Then I think of nothing for a bit. If none of that works I think to myself 'I could be in the office in a really shit meeting right now, and instead I'm getting fit in a pool and it's on my own terms' then ask myself where I'd rather be. That always works and I don't stop.

That I can get my teeth into it and beat a challenge is probably the part of swimming I enjoy most. The part of swimming I enjoy the least is definitely...... the pool. It's my local public pool. It's 30 metres long (take me about 45 seconds to do a length) and it's pretty grim. There's no windows and the artificial lighting makes it pretty dinghy. The room has a low ceiling and the walls are close; the acoustics are ear piercingly unpleasant. I also suffer what I've termed 'lane rage'. I like to swim in the middle of the pool, right by a roped off lane. I go straight back and forth and cover the same space over and over so it's pretty clear that's my space. I'm unassuming and don't ask for that much, just a space that's a metre or so wide and 30 meters long. If someone so much as looks at my little stretch of water I get angry. If they have the gall to rest at the end of the pool to where I AM CLEARLY SWIMMING, I end up wrestling with my lane rage and trying to remain calm. I channel that anger into my next length.

On top of the lane rage, the experience is made more unpleasant by the fact the pool is run by the local authority, so more often than not there's swimming lessons going on for local kids going on. This means the water is choppy and the air is full of a cacophony of children's shrieking competing with teachers shouting 'DON'T RUN'. Hardly conducive to a relaxing swimming experience.

Then you have the other swimmers that, like me, aren't learning (or rather - aren't being taught). The people that have, for whatever reason, decided to take time out of their day to swim up and down, up and down, up and down in a poorly lit, echoey room; sharing chemically water full of god knows what bodily discharge faintly masked by a thin but sharp layer of chlorine. You get some super fit people who swim like fish and cut through the piss and chlorine like a BMW in the inside lane of a motorway, leaving you in their wake trundling along in the slow lane. However, I've noticed most swimmers are of advancing years, say 40+, and don't go as quick. Now that I go regularly I've started to recognise a few faces. There's Hairy Back man. He's about 45 and of middle eastern descent. He's overweight with no hair on his head but A LOT on his back. It's like he's wearing a cashmere sweater in the pool. I feel a bit sorry for him but then I think he probably came to terms with his hairy back a long time ago. If he's married, maybe his wife doesn't mind, I think. Then there's Oriental Lady, she's probably about the same age as Hairy Back man, if not a bit older. She swims so slowly sometimes I think she's swimming backwards, but she is very delicate and graceful and has a distinctly demure air about her.

Then..... then there's Staring Dad. Staring Dad could also be known as Staring Granddad depending on your age. I'd say he's in his mid to late sixties, he looks pretty much like you'd expect: balding, grey, slightly gaunt face, sagging skin on his body; overall he cuts an unassuming figure. Whenever I turn up at the pool Staring Dad is there in the water, bobbing and resting at the end. He occasionally does a couple of lengths but most of the time he bobs and rests. But one thing he definitely does, the whole time, is stare. At me. Every time I look up Staring Dad is staring at me. And when I'm not looking at him, I can feel his stare boring into the side of my head. Sometimes at the end of one length and start of another I happen to turn just next to him, and there he is intently staring at me. Not blinking, just staring. His facial expression doesn't change: he always looks like he's about to ask a question but he never does, a bit like someone pressed pause on a video just as he was about to start speaking. Sometimes I call his bluff and stare back to see if it'll invoke a reaction. It never does and he just stares back. I've tried raising my eyebrows by way of blokey 'hello' but I'm met with the same fixed, slightly apologetic and perplexed stare. On one occasion I happened to be doing my turn next to him and I swear he said something, but I couldn't quite hear over the shrieking kids and yelling teachers. I met his stare and waited for him to say it again but he didn't, he just stared and I shook my head and swam off. I still haven't worked out why he is staring. At first I thought perhaps he is impressed by my unflinching determination and Olympic levels of stamina(!) but then as another swimmer cut passed me like a fish I realised I'm not that gifted. I wonder if perhaps I remind him of himself when he was younger, and he looks on fondly at my comparative youthfulness and virility. Who knows. I'm reluctant to say hello and commit to the inevitable doctrine of social etiquette that would result. I think I'll just let him stare.



<sub>This week I recommend:
1. French people
2. Marmite and Finn Crisp - it works!
3. Trainers
4. Raspberries

This week I do not recommend:
1. My knee</sub>