Keeping My Kit On

I'm not really a naked person. I like naked, I just don’t like it to creep up on me and take me by surprise. And I think it’s odd when it struts about in front of me for no reason. An old friend of mine used to sleepwalk round campus naked. I am confident that if I ever start sleepwalking I will be dressed.

In the changing rooms at the gym, the naked types will blow dry their hair, apply their makeup and stroll about the place before they consider putting their knickers on. I often stare at them, gawping at the grotesques and vacantly gazing at the perfect, idly eyeing how I’d improve myself if you could swap body parts like football cards. But when I change, I am discreet and efficient.

So I was shocked when, in a semi-naked state in the changing room, I was accosted by a stranger. This stranger had seen me the night before at a gig. Naturally, she thought I was very funny. And she’d seized this thirty second window of my near-nakedness to tell me. Even more bizarrely, and on cue like a dancing monkey, I plunged right in to some gym related banter. When we were both satisfied with my performance, she sidled off and I put on my swimsuit.

My favourite thing about a gig is that when it’s over it’s gone forever, whether it was brilliant or average. But if a gig can tap your bare shoulder when you least expect it, then it’s evidently not gone anywhere, and you’d be right to let the bad ones haunt you. This is a terrible thought.