In At The Deep End

Found myself this morning, nine o'clock at the Olympic Aquatic Centre. Nobody more surprised than me, really,  a) to be going to the Diving World Cup and b) to have got anywhere significant by that time in the morning.  Ah but when I was describing where I lived in the last post I didn't tell you that I am 30 minutes away from the Olympic site  and guess who hasn't got any tickets. 

These are computer generated images of architect Zaha Hadid's stunning design which I was keen to see and experience. I found them here.

Unfortunately our approach from Stratford Underground station did not create the best vista.

Below, you can see a part of the main stadium at left and that big grey thing in the background  is the water polo venue.  It was a bit parky as you can tell from the two marshalls who didn't have the benefit of the big foam rubber gloves worn by the London Underground staff.  At every point there were friendly and helpful men and women directing the crowds, checking tickets or doing airport style security checks.  This seemed a good sign.

 Backtracking then, this picture was on exiting the Stratford hub which I gather is the main gateway to the Olympic park. Cunningly, you have to walk through the  massive spanking new Westfield Retail Therapy Mall first. (I was victim to it on my way out after rather a good lunch with my friends of a certain age  in  a Jamie Oliver restaurant.  I simply had to worship at John Lewis, L K Bennett and Kiehls.) 

Getting there finally..   The Pool.  It was  bright and  warm and thankfully didn't  smell of chlorine, feet and mouldy old swimsuits like the school swimming galas I remember.  A couple of hours on the hard seats was about enough and I could have done with a bottle of water.  My husband  later poured scorn on my dehydration issues with his usual rant about General Montgomery's army crossing the desert in World War II on half a pint. So annoying.






Oh and the diving itself?   The Men's Synchronised Three Metre Springboard.  Disappointed not to see Britain's cute superstar Tom Daley, just 17,  but it was  riveting watching a pair of athletes like peas in a pod producing variations on the perfect flight of fancy. With some authority I began giving them marks myself occasionally getting it spot on, more often than not well wide of the mark.  Once I'd watched the action replay, I could see exactly where I had misjudged things. Ha.   Loved it and now desperate to see the Synchronised Swimming. Oh yes.