If there’s a hotter, smellier and more cramped men’s changing room in Britain than the one at our gym, then I’d like to hear about it. It’s next door to the sauna and connected to it by an air vent. My glasses steam up the moment I walk in. After a workout, I shower, towel off, and before I’m dressed I’m soaking wet again with perspiration.
There’s room, just about, for up to four people at a time. Sometimes there are six or seven in there showering, robing or disrobing. Intimate is the word. You have to negotiate your personal space with your neighbour and watch where you put your hands when attempting larger, more sweeping movements. Everyone is forever apologising to everyone else for accidental space violations or knocks and buffets. I was towelling my back the other week and accidentally poked a chap right in the eye as he was leaving.
The floor is permanently awash with water from the shower and the tiny sink. At this time of year also mud. The two wobbly blue plastic slatted benches are cleverly designed so that anything placed upon them — socks, underwear, watch, glasses — immediately falls on the wet floor.
The overcrowding and discomfort has a unifying effect, however — victimhood can be marvellously sociable — and very often conversations break out between strangers about the conditions. Last week, I exchanged grievances with a man who was using the sauna, and had come into the changing room for a cold shower and a period of reflection before going back for another baking.
He was sitting alone in his swimming trunks when I walked in. The floor was wetter and muddier even than usual and he was sitting with his elbows on his knees, contemplating it sadly.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in