Don't Pee in Our Pool

We don't swim in your toilet.

Learned to swim under the glass roof there, in freezing cold public baths reeking of chlorine, on freezing cold Tuesday mornings after being bused in from primary school. Warmed up quick enough after our 10 lengths holding a bit of polystyrene though, running around like a bunch of half-naked half-height 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest' inmates flicking each other with towels and chucking soggy trunks at each other in the changing rooms.

Loads of birthday and Christmas parties in there too, as kids and with our own kids. Badminton upstairs for a while until the flooring gave up and weren't allowed up to the top levels any more. Burned off loads of youthful energy tumbling and vaulting and earning my BAGA badge at Thursday night gymnastic classes then waited and watched years later as Euan picked up his too.

We stayed in the upstairs flat, in the photo on the left, right across the road from the main hall when we were first married and up until our Hez came along, watching the place start to show real signs of of its age out of our big draughty sash windows.

Realised last week as I wandered around the town looking for a barber shop that was open that I've probably not set foot in the place in over five years. Looked ripe for a blip entry with all of the work going on, in the sunshine and against the cloudless sky. Was nothing like that today. Just a couple of workies marching back through the drizzle with their pieces in Gregg's bags.

Hopefully when all the scaffolding comes down, when the restoration's complete and the library and museum and information centre's up and running, the building will be restored to some of it's former glory and help regenerate our battered and bruised town centre.

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