Fitzrovia troglodytes.

I entered an entirely new world today; a world beneath the streets of London and one which I had never dreamed existed. I could only marvel at it, for it was ephemeral and fleeting, and I was a part of it for just a small amount of time.

It was the world of the pre-work, (literally) well-heeled lady "gymers".

 I had the pleasure of staying in a lovely hotel in a swanky area of London known as "Fitzrovia"; not a name I had heard of before, I admit. The area is more usually named Marylebone Village...(not at all pretentious).
The hotel has its own spa, pool and gym which are free for guests to use, but the facilities are also open to local residents, and when I descended in to the changing rooms, I was presented with a sight which completely threw me. I had thought there may be a few others using the gym, or maybe one or two swimmers, and based on past experience, the changing rooms in these places can be tricky to negotiate, with me not wanting to invade others' space, or using someone's favourite locker. However, nothing had prepared me for what I came across at 8.30 this morning.

The changing room was like an up-market beauty parlour, but one in which the beauticians had gone missing. Semi-naked women and girls, draped in snowy-white towels were seated at mirrors with hairdryers, curlers, straighteners, brushes, combs, self-tan, make-up, moisturisers, lotions and potions, and all self-absorbed in preparing themselves for work after their morning gym session or swim. I tried to not stare at the variety of womenhood thus arrayed, and busied myself in the corner, finding a locker, getting into my swimming costume and admiring the way in which the young woman next to me was applying her self-tan to her perfectly smooth legs.

I admit to being in awe. A tad surprised, and maybe even a little envious of the seemingly supremely self-confident women who floated around the spotlessly clean changing room, never really making eye contact with anyone, and donning designer dresses and heels before tippy-tapping up the stairs and into the hustle and bustle of the city streets two storeys above us. I wanted to ask them things, chat, pass the time of day, smile and say how amazing they looked. But there was no chat, for along with the no eye contact, there was seemingly an invisible shield about each woman, making her invincible, unapproachable and self-contained. They could have been the dancing princesses who each night wore out their dance shoes upon entering a faerie realm. I felt like a clumsy interloper, yet  a spell fell over me and I was bewitched.

I will never know how the self-tan applying young woman managed to be streak-free, for she wafted away as I donned my swimming things and then descended further underground to the pool, thinking that I'd now be surrounded by lithe mermaids speeding up and down the pool whilst I did my demure breatstroke in the slow lane. I was greeted by silence. The pool was empty. I had it, and the steam room to myself for 30 minutes until the space was invaded by two large, clumsy men, looking as though they felt they didn't really belong. (They didn't, I felt. They were too ogreish).

I returned to the changing rooms, and here too, all was quiet. No hairdryers, no heels, no flip-flops, for all the beautiful young women had seemingly vanished, vapourised and languidly departed for who knows where. Alone in the changing room, I felt though something of their lingering mystical presence, and as I took my turn at the hairdryers, I hoped that when I entered the gold paved streets of Fitzrovia, I too would be beautiful.

 http://www.londontown.com/LondonAreas/Fitzrovia/http://www.londontown.com/LondonAreas/Fitzrovia/