Bids for fitness have their price.
Plodding (‘ploughing’ seemed too athletic) up and down the local pool, I find I’m either at the mercy of my own thoughts, or an earworm pops up to fill the considerable space.
It’s always been this way.
When I was primary school age (and did a lot of swim training) I don’t believe the phenomenon had been christened ‘earworm’, but I had them just the same. Then, my underwater earworms tended to be taken from something conspicuously successful and receiving wall-to-wall airplay such as ABBA, Boney M or something from Grease. Alternatively, and rather oddly, the earworm would be some of the rather repetitive piano music from my ballet lessons.
The latter have long since been given up. I was never cut out to give Darcey Bussell a run for her money.
But the swimming and the earworms continue, and I think if you’re going to host earworms they could at least be hip ones. Sadly, this rarely happens, which is where I now have to admit that currently… Engelbert is my earworm!
I’m trying to justify this by telling myself our bodies are naturally attuned to a 3/4 rhythm, and that anyway one day soon I will banish my earworms using an extreme blend of technology and sheer mental discipline. But I would feel uncomfortable bribing the pool staff to allow me to use a waterproof mp3 player, and earworms seem to triumph over any attempt to suppress them.
So I’m left contemplating turning this negative into a positive, opening the world’s first underwater earworm farm, and hiring the little darlings out to fellow swimmers for entertainment. Cheaper than an iPod.
Happy Eurovision, Everyone!