At the baths this morning, there was one lane roped off from the rest of the pool - a strip of almost-blue 25 meters x 1.5 meters. There were other swimmers, but no one had chosen this water. I slipped in at the shallow end, paddled off. Couldn't believe my luck.
Having space I can call my own, both in time and square meters, is something I wallow in. I think I used to be a bit out of my depth when faced with space with just me in it - questions and insecurities would bubble up How fast should I go? Are people deliberately avoiding me? Will I get lonely?
No one joined me in the lane - I had a full hour to myself breast-stroking up and down, turning on my back for a spot of back crawl, easing the ache out of my spine. The water was cool, warmed in places by the sun streaming in through the glass roof. I emerged at peace with myself and my body.
I luxuriate in those moments when I get 4 seats round a table on the train to myself, or when I have a whole evening at home in which I can freestyle, or when my work room buddy is away on holiday and I can indulge my musical tastes more freely. La Mer. The Trout Quintet. Peter Grimes.
I'm aware that being alone within four walls can be intensely isolating in different circumstances. I do not take for granted the freedom I have to step out of delineated space.
Later, after my swim, I cycled to the weir and sat on a bench in the sun drying my hair, my bike propped up beside me. A fellow cyclist came over to admire her - she is striking. We chatted for a while about her colour, Lagoon Blue, about folding bikes, about cycle lanes, cycling on the left and then about the way strength and speed diminish with age. Paul had just emerged from eight months of illness - it was his first bike trip out since October. We idled pleasantly around in our conversation against the tumbling sounds of weir water cascading, splashing and foaming, rushing downstream.
