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There's a pool near my house where I swim after work during the winter. In the summer months I can swim in the seawater pool by the beach but come October, I'm back indoors. Its not the most glamorous of places. There are cheesy fish painted on the wall, its only thirty metres long and its not large enough nor does it have enough visitors to justify having any lifeguards, but I love it for its almost my own. Most of the time there's nobody there but myself, and I have the freedom to thrash out seventy or eighty lengths without worrying about disturbing an old lady's doggy-paddle. Being over twenty years old, the pool is rare nowadays as it has a corrugated iron roof and when the rain lashes in from the north as it does during the winter months, it rattles the roof only a few feet above my head. It's a wonderful feeling, just like being inside in front of a fire with a whisky, watching a storm rage outside. I love the sensation of lapping silently in the pool and being barely able to hear my thoughts as the rain drums on the roof. Tonight was one of those nights.

I've been swimming ever since I was married and moved out of the beer phase that enveloped my twenties. The enthusiasm I'd had for partying was now funnelled into the pool, not only because it gave me time to myself, involving neither work nor the wife, but I because I increasingly loved the way I looked. My naturally skinny shoulders put on muscle and my hips stayed narrow. My torso was V-shaped and pointed towards the trail of hair that was peeking out of my swimming costume. Now, I've worn the same pair of shorts for years and last week my wife ...

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