A funny thing happened on the way to the deep end this week, as I doggy-paddled past none other than Alan-from-The Rakes, the band who bought you 22 Grand Job, the anthem you won't hear at this year's UBS Christmas party.
Seeing Alan-from-The Rakes is not an uncommon occurrence for me, we live in the same area. I last saw him riding a plastic coin-operated boat a couple of months ago. I didn't give him the full "You're Alan-from-The Rakes" then because I had just been hiking and was wearing much fleece. I didn't greet him in the pool because I have a policy of not talking to anyone in the gym; trainers, old friends, members of indie bands, whatever.
The good news for Alan was that, with members of the blogging community floating up and down past him, he wasn't there to do anything untoward - drowning kittens, say. He was being very community-minded in fact, allowing his goggles to be used to attach the lane-dividing rope to the side of the pool.
I busied myself composing a Facebook update to post at my soonest convenience and felt a little sorry for the man. Truly nowhere is safe, not even LA Fitness.
Facebook as stalking isn't news. It's pretty much how it came about, but it was thinking about my Alan update that made me realise how real the world of Facebook now is. Use of it, and other social media, is generally felt to occupy the virtual world, which, no matter how many Wiis are sold to footballers, continues to be ruled over by ginger bespectacled dwellers of basements who would do a lot better to get out there and have some face-to-face. A life online is a half-life, we are told.
But as I glared at the non-indie band members splashing about in the pool, I thought about when would be best to post my hilarious comments. Later that night, I figured. I work from home and, while I am allowed out at lunchtime - when this was, really - I don't always like my various employers (who all follow/friend me) to know where I am in the middle of the day while they are lashed to their cubicles. It doesn't send the right message, although they will ultimately benefit from my improved health.
This is not the first time I have mis-led Facebook. Last month I was visiting a fairly down-at-heel provincial town. Such is my life, but I was prevented from commenting on some of its more hilarious attributes/posting photos of its shop signs because an acquaintance of mine lived there. We haven't spoken for years, but she was on Facebook and if I was there, she'd want to know why I hadn't got in touch to spend an agonising evening together.
When you lie about something, it brings it to life. My mother used to justify the dog's obsessive interest in stealing raw Brussels sprouts with the adage 'stolen fruit tastes sweeter' and it's true that the tang of lying adds a certain mouth-watering edge, even to a mini-cabbage.
I'm not advocating lying, despite working in the hotel market, a sector where false names, satin sheets and overpriced champagne have bolstered many a profit. But when something seems important enough to risk going to hell, or your nose careening out of the centre of your face, or whatever the threat was, it makes it more real.
Beware, basement-dwellers, you may have a life after all.