The Glasgow boys
You can never have a big enough towel in a changing room…
My hubby and I were staying in a hotel in Glasgow, swimming in the ‘spa pool’, an out-of-date affair with peeling paint, cracked tiles, a minute gym, and a jacuzzi so hot you could boil an egg in it. (I guess anything is hot when you spend your morning in a Scottish lock).
There was no privacy in the changing room to drop your kegs, and it was so small that arse bumping was a given.
The hotel, being in the center of Glasgow, was full of tourists and charged a fortune, even before you parked the car. The toiletries were nailed down, there was only one packet of biscuits to accompany the ‘complimentary’ Nescafé, and any eggs other than scrambled were considered ‘extra’ for breakfast. Which had an American moaning, “‘Since when did a fried egg become the height of luxury?”
Not that I cared.
My hubby had been in Bangladesh for over two months, and fried eggs were the last thing on my mind.
The pool was full when hubby and I ventured in. He, in his makeshift bathers (rolled up pajamas that almost worked), headed straight for the sauna, while I, with a belly full of scrambled egg, was boiling my bits in the hot tub, people watching.
In the corner of the pool were three old boys with the sort of Glasgow accent that spelt ‘comfortably retired, one was stretched out on the lilo catching up on the news while the other two were discussing it. They looked like naughty schoolboys, escaping wives who didn’t like swearing or coffee rings on tables, who spent their time in the bowling club, drinking gin and tonic while chatting up any barmaid who stood still long enough.
After nearly dislocating myself ‘arse-avoiding’ while changing, I met Hubby after the swim. He, clutching his make-shift bathers in a plastic bag, looked a little flustered. He is a Muslim and, being modest, likes to change under a towel like an embarrassed teenager whose pubes haven’t grown in.
He started to tell me about three old men who, naked, strutted about the changing room like Tarzan, their bits swinging about like a decorated elephant’s trunk. “I think they were racist,” he said.
“Why”
“They were laughing at me changing under a towel. What are you hiding? Is it gold-plated? Extra large? You hung like a donkey.”
“Maybe it was your PJs,” I said.
“No, I think it was the color of my skin.”
“So what did you do?” I asked.
“I dropped my towel.”
“And?”
“They laughed…and made a joke about the size of my towel.”
I looked at him, “I told you that was a hand towel.”
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