Life in the Fast Lane

My husband and I go swimming most weeks. It’s become part of our routine. Not just exercise, but a little act of rebellion against life itself. A chance to reconnect amid the endless busyness. For one glorious hour, the emails, the washing, the ever-growing list of Things We Really Must Get Done all have to wait while we bob around in chlorinated water pretending we’re the sort of couple who’ve got life figured out. We’ve genuinely come to love it. Especially during winter. Winter belongs to the committed swimmers. The sensible people stay at home, leaving the pool blissfully quiet. Sometimes it’s just the two of us, gliding up and down the lanes in near silence. It’s strangely therapeutic. Then summer arrives. Suddenly everyone remembers they’ve got beer bellies, love handles and a holiday booked in six weeks’ time. The pool becomes absolutely rammed with people chasing their beach bodies. Now, I’m not asking for miracles. I’m hardly Tom Daley. But surely lane swimming isn’t that difficult to grasp. Slow. Medium. Fast. Three lanes. Three speeds. Three incredibly simple concepts. Yet every single week the general public can’t seem to get it through their thick skulls. Some people drift along so slowly you’d swear they’re waiting for the tide to come in. Others are permanently attached to your backside. I call them the arse munchers. Every time you push off the wall they’re still six inches behind you, close enough to count the pimples on each arse cheek. Then there are the front crawlers. The self-appointed torpedoes. They absolutely hammer through the medium lane when they clearly belong in the fast lane, creating waves so violent I spend half my swim wondering whether I’ve been dropped into a washing machine and put on industrial spin. Lately, swimming has become less about relaxation… and more; “let’s see if we can avoid an accidental manslaughter charge before the end of lane four.” My husband, Mat, cannot cope with it. After a few utterly miserable lengths — dodging pensioners, overtaking breaststrokers and being aggressively overtaken by human speedboats, apologising to people who somehow manage to swim diagonally — he inevitably reaches breaking point. I call it… The Tanny. It’s become so predictable I could probably time it with a stopwatch. He clambers out of the pool, dripping like an angry otter. “I can’t fucking swim in these conditions.” “But we’ve only done five lengths,” I plead. “It’s a war zone out there.” He’s not entirely wrong. Every length requires tactical planning, split-second decision making, and the willingness to accept there may be casualties. Today, in my dream, is no different. The pool is absolutely heaving with bodies. The lanes have descended into complete anarchy. Children are happily bobbing about in the designated swimming lane, treating it like an oversized paddling pool. People who could comfortably be overtaken by drifting seaweed have somehow claimed the medium lane as their own. Meanwhile, the serious front crawlers are carving through the water like angry speedboats, fuelled by nothing but rage and protein shakes. It’s hellish. I glance sideways at Mat. He’s still swimming… but only just. I know that look. His jaw has tightened. His eyebrows have knitted together. He’s no longer swimming, he’s punching the water. The Tanny is coming. I can practically hear the dramatic music building. Still… I try to stay optimistic. “Just a few lengths,” I say. “We’ll get out afterwards.” He grunts. No words. Just sound. One arse muncher away from completely losing the plot. God bless us… We try. Every few metres we’re forced into some sort of impromptu aqua aerobics class just to avoid being kicked in the ribs, slapped in the face by a rogue arm, or accidentally headbutting a complete stranger. Swimming has become less like exercise… and more like navigating the M25 in swimwear. Then… the final straw. Out of absolutely nowhere, a small child launches themselves onto Mat’s back. The little darling has apparently mistaken my husband for an inflatable whale. He wraps his arms around Mat’s shoulders and squeals with delight as Mat unknowingly ferries him halfway down the lane. Mat stops dead. Slowly turns his head. “What…” Pause. “…the…” Another pause. “…fuck?” With one swift movement, he flings the child off his back like a particularly stubborn limpet. The child finds the whole thing hilarious. Mat does not. “This is a fucking joke.” The lifeguard, naturally, fails to notice any of it. By length two, Mat suddenly stops beside me. “Hold this.” He presses a tape measure into my hand. I stare at the tape measure, then back at him. “Why on earth are you carrying a tape measure?” “You never know when you might need to do a bit of DIY.” He says it as though it’s perfectly normal. “In a swimming pool?” “It’s called foresight.” Right. Of course. My husband hates DIY. Ikea flat-packs give him hives. Yet somehow, today, he’s brought a tape measure swimming. So now I’m weaving through a sea of flailing limbs whilst clutching a soaking wet tape measure like it’s the Olympic torch. Every few strokes I panic I’ve dropped it. Why? I don’t know. Dream logic doesn’t offer explanations. It simply hands you a tape measure and expects you to get on with it. Meanwhile Mat is visibly unraveling. Every overtake. Every splash. Every rogue breaststroker. Every arse muncher sniffing what he had for breakfast. I can almost see the steam escaping from his ears. Eventually… he erupts. “I’m done.” “I genuinely cannot do this anymore.” He points behind him. “If that fucker touches my feet one more time…” he shakes his head, “…I’m going to drown him.” I don’t even argue. “There isn’t a single enjoyable thing about this human soup bowl.” And with that… he storms towards the steps, hauling himself out of the pool with all the urgency of a man abandoning a sinking ship. I’m only a few strokes behind him. Because sometimes the quickest way to preserve your sanity… is simply to admit defeat. Eventually, we escape. I’m expecting the familiar comfort of the changing rooms. The damp smell of chlorine. Rows of lockers. Women wrestling themselves into bras without accidentally flashing strangers. Normality. Instead… I blink… and the entire changing room has transformed into a supermarket. One moment I’m reaching for my towel, the next I’m standing between the fruit and vegetables, still dripping into a puddle beneath my feet. I’m still wearing my swimming costume, hair plastered to my head, water squelching inside my flip-flops with every step. Nobody seems to bat an eyelid. Apparently dripping through Sainsbury’s in a swimming costume is perfectly acceptable dream etiquette. A little girl points at me. Her mum simply carries on comparing the price of cucumbers. Mat, meanwhile… is already halfway down the first aisle. Of course he is. Always five paces ahead. Always walking with purpose. Like the supermarket will self-destruct if we don’t reach the checkout within seven minutes. I hurry after him, leaving a trail of little wet footprints across the polished floor. “Slow down!” I call. He doesn’t even turn around. He’s armed with a shopping list. His sacred scroll. Once that list appears, there’s no browsing. No wandering. No “Ooh, that’s nice.” No spontaneous purchases. We buy exactly what’s written. Nothing more. Nothing less. Shopping with my husband isn’t an experience. It’s a military operation. He attacks each aisle with ruthless efficiency. Bread. Tick. Milk. Tick. Coffee. Tick. Done. We’re in. We’re out. No unnecessary detours. Especially not… the homeware section. I cast a longing glance towards it as we pass. The soft cushions. The mugs I definitely don’t need. The scented candles that promise they’ll somehow transform my life into a cosy Scandinavian drama. “Oh…” I sigh. “They’ve got the autumn candles out.” Mat doesn’t even look. “The budget, Mandy.” Always… the bloody budget. I know he’s right. Times are tough. The electricity doesn’t care how nice my house smells. Still… sometimes I don’t actually want the candle. I just want permission to look at it. To wander. To waste five peaceful minutes imagining how lovely it’d look on the coffee table. But we’re already moving. Always moving. Always onto the next thing. Then… somewhere between the bakery and the freezer section… reality tears open. A glowing portal appears in the middle of the aisle. Nobody screams. Nobody panics. An elderly gentleman simply steers his trolley around it as though portals to alternate dimensions are covered in this week’s special offers. Inside… stretching further than I can possibly see… is the most magnificent flea market imaginable. It rolls out across fields and over hills, disappearing into the horizon. Tables piled high with forgotten treasures and impossible bargains. It’s glorious. I can feel my bargain goggles sliding firmly into place. “Oh…” I whisper. “There are bargains in there.” Not just bargains. Possibilities. The sort of place where you go looking for absolutely nothing… and somehow come home with a brass duck, three novels, a cake tin from 1978 and an overwhelming sense of achievement. I take one tiny step towards the portal. Then another. “I’m just going to have a little look…” I say. Mat doesn’t even break stride. “We haven’t got time.” “I’ll only be five minutes.” “You won’t.” He’s right. I won’t. Because nobody has ever gone into a flea market for five minutes. It’s physically impossible. I look back one last time. The portal shimmers, quietly tempting me. I swear I spot an old typewriter. Possibly a Le Creuset casserole dish for three quid. I’ll never know. Because Mat is already making a beeline for the tills. And like always… I follow behind him. Always behind. Not because he’s making me. Because somewhere along the line, I’ve become so used to keeping up… I’ve forgotten how to stop. Within seconds he’s scanned, packed and paid before I’ve even had a chance to panic about the total. Receipt folded neatly into his wallet. Job done. “We’ll have to get the tuk-tuk home,” he says. I stop. “The… what?” “The tuk-tuk.” He says it as though we’ve owned one for years. “What happened to the car?” The words leave my mouth before my brain has chance to stop them. I instantly regret asking. “At the scrappy.” He doesn’t even look up. Just continues adjusting the shopping bags. “Our Kia?” “Yep.” “Our beautiful Kia Venga?” “Gone.” He shrugs. “Metal sandwich.” I stand there mourning the loss of a perfectly respectable family car that, only moments ago, I could have sworn was parked outside the swimming pool. Dreams don’t wait for grief. They simply move on. Sure enough, a tuk-tuk screeches to a halt outside the supermarket. It’s already overflowing with people. There are shopping bags hanging off the sides. Someone’s balancing a pot plant on their knees. Nobody seems remotely surprised. The driver simply nods. “Room for two.” There quite clearly isn’t. Nevertheless… we climb aboard. It’s like trying to squeeze the final sock into an already overfilled washing machine. I wedge myself into what appears to be half a seat. Or perhaps a quarter. It’s difficult to tell. And then I see her. Sophie. An old friend. One of those lovely people I genuinely like, yet every time we meet my brain offers up nothing beyond “How are the kids?” before immediately giving up. We exist in a carefully maintained four-sentence friendship. She smiles. I smile. We both agree, silently, to pretend we haven’t seen each other. Honestly… it’s easier this way. Just as I’m settling into the awkwardness… something lands on my lap. Or rather… Someone. Sophie’s mum. She appears to have put on a considerable amount of timber since I last saw her. Without a single word, she lowers herself directly onto my knees. Apparently my lap has become her reserved seating. My legs immediately disappear beneath approximately three-quarters of Sophie’s mum. “Oh!” I squeak. “I’m so sorry…” Why am I apologising? I’ve absolutely no idea. It’s a lifelong condition. She glances over her shoulder. “I didn’t realise you were sitting there.” Neither did I. She shifts slightly, somehow becoming even heavier. “Your knees are a bit bony…” she says thoughtfully. “…but they’ll do.” Thanks for that. The tuk-tuk lurches forwards. Every pothole drives her another inch into my kneecaps. Pins and needles arrive somewhere around junction three. By junction five, I’m fairly certain my legs have ceased to exist altogether. I look helplessly at Mat. He’s trying not to laugh. His shoulders are bouncing. He’s biting the inside of his cheek. One snort escapes. Then another. Finally he gives up completely. He’s crying with laughter. “I wouldn’t laugh,” I mutter. “I think my legs have died.” “You’ll get new ones.” “Will I?” “Probably.” Very reassuring. The journey drags on. The scenery never seems to change. I’m fairly sure we pass the same sheep three times. Eventually, after what feels like several working days, the tuk-tuk pulls up outside our house. Sophie’s mum climbs off my lap with surprising agility. “Oh.” She pats my shoulder. “Thanks for that. I’ll leave a review.” Then wanders off without another word. I attempt to stand. My legs politely decline. After a brief internal negotiation, they reluctantly remember how knees work. I wobble towards the front door. Mat unlocks it. We both carry the shopping inside. I let out the longest sigh imaginable. “Well…” I say. “…that was thoroughly unenjoyable.” He nods. “It was.” We empty the shopping bags onto the kitchen worktop. One by one. Nothing comes out. No bread. No milk. No coffee. No fruit. No shopping. The bags are completely empty. We stare at them. Then at each other. The only thing left sitting on the worktop… is the tape measure. Mat picks it up. Turns it over in his hands. Measures the edge of the kitchen counter. “Ninety-two centimetres.” “What are you measuring?” He shrugs. “No idea.” Silence. I look around the kitchen. The swimming. The shopping. The rushing. The queues. The bargains I never stopped to browse. The conversations I never had. The journey home. Hours spent moving… and somehow we’d arrived home with nothing to show for it except a tape measure nobody had ever needed. Then I wake up. Still tired. Still feeling as though I’d spent an entire day rushing from one place to the next… … without ever actually getting anywhere meaningful at all.