It doesn’t lift, nip or tuck. It is the single most unattractive garment.
Unless you’re 2, but even that’s no excuse.
Who wants to see lumps and bumps, twinkles and nipples? Not me. Lycra, ban it.
Stretched to the max, it doesn’t sculpt or shape. Men in particular, red speedos are an abhorrent blight upon the eye. No matter the body type, there’s a function for that part of a man’s anatomy, and it is certainly not for decoration.
Women too, shame on you, our grandmothers gave us the revolutionary sculpting 50’s bathing suits, and yet we’ve replaced them with an itsy bitsy teenie weenie riding up bikini.
It is God awful.
Not only did I have to suffer the pee ridden pool on another wet and windy summer’s day but I was aghast at the spectacles, or was it the testicles.
Laid bare for all to see, Lycra hugs all the wrong places, serving them up on a dish.
And, as if I didn’t have enough to cope with this long summer without all this bollocks.
His laugh, his cry, his tantrum rants, he is my reflection.
Content in his own little world, why would I want to change that.
Watching him reminds me of her and who she was.
Standing by, I want to be her again to laugh and cry and dance.
The sweat’s dripping off the walls, the pains shooting through the backs of your heels; drilling it is called. Over and over again repeating; perfection demanded. The leather’s rubbing and the blisters forming. The walls drip, bodies battered, lines intact.
Drumming echoes and the rhythm builds. The music grows and the taps bellow, building faster and faster, pushing further and further.
And there’s a shrieking.
5, 6, 7, 8 and the pounding starts again. Hearts racing, bodies soaking, cuts dig into flesh. Years of battle echoed on the floor as the rhythm beats. Defiance turned into art. The formations are rigid, backs arched and poised strength. Elegance and determination entwined.
We are all competing.
Bruised, the pain would set in the day after. It started at the Crossroads, but for me it began in the Washhouse.
For writers everywhere, I spotted this in a doorway in Glasgow today. Writing connects you to the past, present and when we are no longer here. I wondered for a moment about their stories, their lives and their time. And then I walked on to meet my future.