1980’s Swimming Baths

A bag full of dryness, tied up with anticipation.
The entrance of the baths; it`s dull, exhausted glass.
Damp heads pass by. 
Babies cry yet nothing stops my feet to the changing rooms.

Wild walls of noise. 
Lockers slam like prison doors. 
The air...abundantly stickier. 
A desperate scramble to change. 
All fingers and thumbs which makes it so much trickier. 
At last...a bone, dry costume and a fresh verruca sock. 

Squeaking mice squeeze my arms. 
A coloured locker band; too big for my wrist; too small for my ankle. 
A five second shower and with all my power, 
I turn...stop...look...

Bodies in tepid confusion. 
A steam and chlorine fusion. 
Helpless inflatables drown in pale, yellow waves. 

Cartoon safety signs slouch on condensated tiles. 
No jumping, running, splashing, wetting, 
bombing, spitting, heavy petting, no laughing...have fun.

Spectators’ gallery full. 
A fog of faggy smoke.
Yelling, swearing, snogging. 
Greasy chips and cherry coke. 

Dive into the yellow. A powerful, pelting plunge. 
The baths straight up my nostrils.
A poisonous, toxic gunge.

Ears immersed and muted. 
Muffled, liquid gulps.  
A slightly altered world with heightened awareness of pulse. 

Green light flashes, green bands out! 
Densely drenched and dismal. 
Time has trickled down the drain with the strands of hair and sputum.

Drying takes five hours. Dressing takes a day. 
Half wet hair and one sock down. 
Colour mixed with grey. 

Stomach starts to rumble. 
Lunch was late last week. 
Outside the changing room doors. 
My own, magic machine. 

Salt and vinegar crisps. 
A tinny can of Tizer.  
20p for Pacman and a bag of jelly tots.

Microwaved air inside.
Outside it stings my face. 
My bag pulls at my mood.  

Shampoo and vinegar for tea.

By Clare Hewson