Aquafit

November Friday mornings when the weather’s
foul Glaswegian, see me out my bed
by half past nine, racing the traffic to Scotstoun.
I join the usual coven in the pool, ladies past
a certain age, warming up their tonsils.
Teacher arrives, cranks up the music machine,
and off we go, ready or not, to the sound of
‘Running Bear’, ‘YMCA’, Aga-doo-doo-doo.
At last, some use for those terrible songs
of our youth. Heads in various shades of
blonde bob along as we all run up to the
deep end, our lop-sided chests, diabetic legs,
plus plus sizes, varicose veins, paying
tribute to all the babies, the sweeties,
the drinks and fish suppers of our lives.
But here we are, out and proud, doing
frog jumps, star jumps, scissors jumps,
running up to the deep end, turning,
jumping backwards, turning.
‘Turn, turn, turn,’ she says, butter wouldn’t melt.
Is she having a laugh? ‘I’d like to turn her,’
someone remarks sourly. Giggles erupt.
‘Get a woggle,’ she shouts, as we all
tread water and those at the back of the class
return to the real business of the morning,
yackety-yak. Sometimes a man drifts across
by mistake, looking for the speed lane, not sure
what’s going on, but we’re oblivious (almost)
…give us a man after midnight and we’re away,
heads bobbing again as we all kick in unison.
Teacher cracks the whip. ‘Faster, kick those
legs – let me see knees, knees, knees!’
Someone says: ‘Catch yer grannie daeing
this, eh?’ We’re all having a laugh, now,
some lewd joke or other, I can’t catch it but
laugh anyway, and it’s onto the last stretch,
little jumps, one, two, three, four, and jump
in the air, and ‘Well Done’ as we clap ourselves
and make our way, jelly-legged, to the showers,
all of us Dancing Queens fighting our Waterloo.