air today, gone tomorrow

I went for my annual visit to the gym on Monday, and had a fitness test with an instructor who had halitosis so severe you could chew it and taste it.

I didn't notice it at first. When you're being moved around the room and weighed and measured, you're not in the line of fire long enough to get a whiff. It wasn't until I sat down for the blood pressure measure thing that I started to wonder if there was a four-year old egg sandwich in the room somewhere. As the pump pumped and the arm compressor compressed, Hal (not his real name) kept telling me what good blood pressure is and bad, and all the time I'm wondering what the dreadful smell is. It did occur to me momentarily it could be the poor boy's breath, but to be honest, I dismissed the idea because I thought nothing that disgusting could possibly be emitted from a person's body. Mouth or otherwise.

Hal gently told me to relax so he could see what my resting heart rate would be, but by this time the putrid stench was hitting me in waves which were clearly coinciding with the times when he was talking right at me, and so I took in the awful truth. Literally.

As the digital read-out dropped to what we both hoped would be the sort of number that didn't show me up as a bloater who's had one chocolate Hob Nob too many, I held my breath. My heart rate stayed steady, which is amazing because I must have held my breath for a good fifteen seconds trying to look as if, well, as if I wasn't.

As the arm-grippy-blood-sleeve loosened its grip, I exhaled slowly, professionally, like a weight lifter might, to show that I was quite a fit bloke really and breathing it out carefully. Controlled. Calm. Disguised. Not at all the breathing out of a man now utterly nauseous from the stench talking to me a meter away.

I felt pretty pleased with myself for averting that particular assault but, being too unfit to even hold my breath sitting down, I then had to inhale more than I normally would, to compensate. Which, because Hal is still banging on about my BMI divided by my IBS (I'm joking, I don't have IBS, but maybe he did? orally), meant trying to look interested (which I wasn't) whilst moving my face away, side to side, up and down, and then, ooh! is that an itch in both nostrils? I must scratch both by pinching them and squeezing them. He must have thought I was an asthmatic with twitch.

Things didn't get any better when we went into the gym itself to go through my tasks on the machines. He showed me a few and demonstrated that breathe-in-lift-breathe-out thing whilst still telling me to snack from now on with green beans and carrots. But, if anything, his breath seemed to get worse. And it's rude not to look at a man whilst he's talking, and certainly when he's bench-pressing fifty kilos and discussing vegetables, so what can you do? And then, whilst I was pedaling away on a bike that goes nowhere, and him standing there with his watch and clipboard and bin-liner breath, I was now starting to feel really sick and considerably dizzy. The problem was, as I did my best to keep pedaling and trying not look like a complete loser (yet all the time suppressing a monumental gag reflex) I couldn't be sure if I was just ludicrously unfit or, thanks to Hal breathing on me, going into some sort of coma.

Of course, many times it went through my mind that someone ought to tell him about his problem. Or that maybe that I should be the one to tell him, but added to my dilemma was the guilt that I couldn't. I mean, what do you say? Really? Sorry, look, I really appreciate this fitness programme thing you're working out for me, but I think something has died in your mouth? Or maybe, Hey, I've just noticed I've got some mints in my pocket, would you like one? no? oh yes you do. You bloody DO! TAKE ONE FOR PETE'S SAKE, TAKE THE PACKET TAKE IT ALL AND SWALLOW IT WHOLE OR YOU'RE GONNA KILL SOMEBODY... ARRRRRGGGGH!!!!! before I, job done, civilisation saved, cancer cured and the world a better place to raise our children, let go finally, let it all go, and no more holding of my own breath, no more stench and skunk and pain, and collapse, collapse helplessly in slow heroic motion, down, down, my dying (unfit) body dropping to the ground, my eyes watering, (fat) face green, and nose bleeding, life exhaling out of me, leaking air, leaking thoughts wild, memories vivid and then...and then...

Silence

And still.

The whisper of my final breath.

Clean, pure and with minty freshness.

hair today, gone tomorrow

Finally went for a hair cut on Monday. It's quiet on a Monday. The hairdresser's. Not my hair.

I can't remember when I stopped calling it the barber's. Probably when I was about 16, the last time it seemed acceptable for my peers to notice that hair had indeed been cut and, in a friendly, manly, scholarly nay jovial way, try to beat the shit out of me and offering at the same time the complex chant of "hair cut!" hair cut!" Just to welcome it, I suppose. Or say goodbye.

And I sort of remember that it was in the 80s when hairdresser's started getting all fancy and offering a menu of the exotique to us mere blokes, like mullets, foil hats and coffee with your own hair in it. It was around the mid 80s when I seemed to stop going in somewhere and plonking myself down for the slash and thrust of blade and trimmer. You would be met instead, as you are now, by the person who'll be doing the styling (I've only ever wanted a short back 'n' sides, for chrissake!), greeted, consulted, then swiftly and expertly handed over to some apprentice, or student (or the cleaner - how would we ever know?) to have your head wedged in half a sink and your hair washed. A science it must clearly be.

Over time, as with all modern consumers (except the bald ones obviously), I got used to this extended and clearly professional service, and quite liked it. I still do. "How's the water?" the washer slave will ask, and I'll say "wet", and regret it straight away, knowing full well this is neither witty nor unique. Then, some water, wet water, might trickle down the back of my ear and slide down my neck. Often, actually.

Though one time, I thought my wit and banter had struck home. A washer slave, young and pretty, female, greeted me, shook my hand (a wet fish, sadly) and sat me down. Soon she was washing my hair. Shampoo this, conditioner that, moving her fingers through my lovely, flowing locks. Slavely, wetly, fingerly. And then, to my stunned disbelief and excitement, she very deliberately slowed down the rubbing to a gentle massage from her fingertips, moving them firmly, knowingly, probingly across my eager scalp. Yes. Yes! YES!

I lay there. Tilted back, neck-wedgedly. Eyes up at the ceilingly.

Unable to swivel my head or neck or anything, and she still fingering me (what else can you call it?), I tried to look up through my head and behind at her, to make it clear the message was getting through, that the signs were clear, and that the feeling, my darling whoever you are, was mutual. "My turn next, cupcake" my eyes tried to say. "I'll do you next, if you like. I can rub you. Oh yes I can. Just you wait."

Then I pulled some sort of eye muscle. It really hurt. Panic. Now I'm a guy with one eye forever looking the wrong way. Shit. When she sees me now she'll never fancy me. "Lovely clean hair he had, " she'd tell her mum, "but he looks in both directions at once."

No. I'm ok. That was close. But I was trying so hard to look at her, my eyes must have looked completely white to anyone sitting waiting and watching. Like a zombie having a rinse. "Morning, Mr Z. The usual? Looking a bit rough, aren't we? Been on yer holidays? Anywhere nice?"

Before I remained forever bog-eyed (now blog-eyed?) and staring at my own forehead, I finally got my eyeballs back into their normal position, looked up and down, went a bit dizzy (people still watching?) and wondered about my new love, and the danger she might now be in. No other washer slave in a million hair-dos would be allowed to get away with molesting a customer like this? But what a bold and forward approach. Hey, I'm a modern bloke. She can make the first move. I'm ok with that. Thus were her advances welcome on a young, understanding, sex-starved Adonis such as myself.

But no sooner had the scene begun, the affair ended abruptly as a harsh, unforgiving towel was unceremoniously wrapped around my head. The sink was dry, the girl was gone, and I was sent packing like the Queen of Sheba with a squint. And you don't see that everyday.

19 going on 20

My good lady wife reliably informs me, with regard to the recent message I posted, that we have only been married for 19 years. Not 20. We discussed it thus:

Me: I was j

ust rounding up the number. I thought it gave a sense of how, erm, complete we are...

She: I see.

Me: ...and

the magnitude of our togetherness.

She: Magnitude of our togetherness?

Me: Well, yes.

She: Magnitude?

Me: I guess.

She: Are you saying I'm fat?

Me: God, no! Not at all. I want to be absolutely clear about that.

She: Good

Me: Anyway, I thought you'd be pleased.

She: About what?

Me: About that fact I'm blogging about us so early on in my blog and mentioning us being a large- no, not large - greater than the sum of the two parts. In some way. I thought. Right?

She: Greater?

Me: I see your point.

She: Which parts, exactly?

Me: But you have to agree, in flowing prose, 20 years captures more than 19 years the magni-, er, lovliness and, may I say, endurance of?

She: Not really

Me: Enduringness?

She: Only just.

Me: Ok, Ok, I'll put 19 years in a new post and update it.

She: And make me look good.

Me: I don't have to. You already look good.

She: Correct answer. That's my boy. Love me?

Me: Love you.

sink or swim

I’ve been watching the World Swimming Championship in Rome. And by that I don’t mean I’m in Rome watching it. It’s not like I have the time or money to go to Rome anytime I like, and then waste it on watching swimming when I get there. That would be just mad. If I went to Rome I’d probably go and see some old ruins and eat pizza and drink wine, obviously. Maybe rent a scooter. Maybe wear dark glasses and eat ice cream by a fountain. Maybe

meet a sexy, young Italian woman. Eat ice cream together. Flick it at eachother. Flirt. Fall in love. Be fallen in love with.

Flick it at eachother?

But then I’d have to explain to my wife of 20 years’ marriage what I’m doing in Rome eating ice cream with an Italian woman. That could get ugly. And messy. What with all that flicking and stuff. Best stay at home after all.

No. I mean, as you well know, I’ve been watching it on telly at home, where I am – clearly - prepared to waste my time.

To be honest, I’ve never really watched swimming on telly. Not properly. Sure, every four years when the Olympics comes round, it’s on for ages and ages before the real sports come on with people running around in circles, throwing things and being very bendy on a large mat. For about a week there’s a lot of wet thrashing about with excitement over someone winning by a hundredth of a second, but I really didn’t get it until now. The strength and the way they now do most of their lengths bobbing about like Flipper.

For some reason, this time, without realising it, and without having to go to Rome and get caught up in a difficult love affair… (or die in a scooter accident - her jealous Italian lover drove into me at full speed head on. In his Fiat Punto. With no hub caps. That’s how bad he was. And he died, too, by the way. But not before mumbling his final words: I’ve got the best fridge magnet collection this side of Milan. Which was very odd. And just not true. He didn’t have a fridge magnet collection of any kind. In fact, he didn’t even have a fridge. What a loser)…I was very impressed with the way they swim now.

The last time I watched swimming on telly in any proper way, was when I was a kid. Probably Mark Spitz and the like, swimming up and down in plus-fours and eating a curly wurly just before diving in.

But now. Now they wear these shark skin suits, shave their fingernails and have oblong heads. I swear, yesterday, I saw a close up of a guy whose face looked exactly like that of a fish, gawping back at me. No two ways about it. The googly eyes, the open upside-down mouth. We have Sky HD and you can even see his gills.

And they win so many medals!

But we know why, don’t we?

It’s not just the cheating suits or because there are so many different types of swimming styles and distances. It’s because they have it too bloody easy. It’s because they get to swim in a straight line without some pensioner coming with opposite way at the speed of a metre per day and using up all the lane. Or some teenagers kicking them in the face and carrying on once you’ve ruined your chances of breaking the world record because you had to stop, take off your goggles, cough out spit and vomit to shout Watch what you’re doing will you? Jeez! Kids! I’m trying to swim! Go in the baby pool or something! Honest to god! Or some lifeguard blowing a whistle and making you stop because you think it's you in trouble. No running. No bombing. No petting.

And they get to swim in nice clean pools, too, free of the worry that it’s not full of kiddy snot, pee and acne. That’s why some of the contestants wear nose clips. We all should.

So, I could have been an medallist swimmer if I didn’t have all that baggage in my way. Anyone could. And besides, as I said, they have these special swimsuits (designed by NASA, I hear. What?! Eh?!! Space gear? For swimming? Duh. Someone needs to rethink that one)…instead of having to swim in your pyjamas like I had to.

Whenever things got serious at swimming lessons as a kids, like being tested or something, we suddenly had to do it in our pyjamas. What the hell was that all about? Scared the shit out of me, frankly. All I could think of when I went to bed was the real possibility of tons of water coming through my windows some night from somewhere, and my training (I use the term loosely) would have to save me.

Not only that.

I seemed to do a lot of swimming in my pyjamas, up and down, then tread water (or rather, simply trying not to sink whilst begging the instructor to help), then dive for a rubber brick. A rubber brick! I’m almost 46. I’ve never seen a rubber brick. Ever! And I certainly wouldn’t go looking for one above or below water. And certainly not in my pyjamas.

So come on, sports people. Get real. Do what we had to do and see how good you are. Do the 100m butterfly in your pyjamas and then see how good you are. Sink like a stone, you would. Or a brick. And when you do, sink like a brick, I mean, it’s people like me who are gonna have to put on jim jams and come and save you.