Diving into chaos

It started out as a modest demand: Could the children have a pool, a chillout zone for hanging around with friends, just deep enough to reach their waists? “It’ll be a chore emptying and cleaning it after every summer dust storm,” I warned, but it seemed a simple enough request, so I conceded. “A little pond, really,” I told the contractor, “something to dip their ankles into.” The markers were put in place, distances calculated, but it seemed the size of a ditch rather than a wading pool. “Let’s make it a little larger,” I told him, “just a little bit.” 

Before the digging began, the architect had a rethink. “It’s called a swimming pool for a reason,” he said, expanding the length, so it resembled one of those water bodies attached to holiday villas in Bali, a narrow trench of water that looks appealing but serves very little purpose. Despite the length, you can’t really swim in it, I pointed out to him, but he’d made up his mind. “You can have a seating area at one end,” he suggested, “for when you feel like a beer.” Friends mocked us with recommendations of fountains, rain showers and lily ponds. “Ready or not,” the contractor threatened, “I’m going to start digging.”

“It’s too small,” my daughter nagged, “we want a proper pool, not a jacuzzi in the garden.” “Yeah, Dad,” my son agreed, “why settle for half, when you can have the full.” I pointed out that it was a matter, also, of resources, but no one seemed to give a thought to my depleting bank balance, being swallowed up like water in a leaky swimming pool. At any rate, the orientations were changed again, more girth added to the elongated length, and it seemed we would finally be on our way, but the specs weren’t quite done yet.

What would the gradients be? Would there be a shallow end and a deep end? How should the floor slope? “We need electric points,” said my son, who had brought back a beer chiller from the US to float in the pool. “There has to be a barbecue grill,” pointed out his friend, clearly establishing his stakes — and first rights — to the pool. “We need a covered deck for sitting,” added my daughter, “and somewhere to keep stuff.” Stuff? “Like suntan lotion,” she said lamely, “towels, slippers.” “I need to buy swimsuits,” said my wife, “I’m going shopping.” 

At any rate, what we have now is a large pit, one end deeper than the other. It won’t do for those wanting to swim Olympic-length laps; hell, it won’t meet the criterion of the average club either, but you can swim in it — when it’s done. “It won’t be long,” insisted the contractor, implying he’d have the construction finished soon, so we’d better move on with finalising the finishes. “I want patterns,” pleaded my daughter, “why should the tiles be plain blue?” What kind of patterns? “I don’t know,” she mused, “fish motifs, or flowers…” “Let’s have green tiles,” said my son, who isn’t very imaginative, and is quick to back off when challenged by his sister, but is insisting on being heard this time round, “or we could get yellow tiles.” I really have to shut him up. Because, of course, there are as many views as there are voices. Railings, steps, lights, underwater stools, cleaning plants, draining pits — who’d have thought a simple pool could cause such a big headache.