A swimmer enjoys the rooftop pool at the Thermae Bath Spa. Photo: PA
In the eucalyptus-scented steam room at the newly-opened Bath Spa, the retired fireman from Kent was tremendously relaxed and enjoying himself immensely. "All that money and there are still so many things they haven't got right," he said happily. "Floor levels are all over the place. Look over there, there's the outlet grille, but the water is pooling on the opposite side."
The spa has been Bath's very own Wembley stadium: year after year of missed deadlines has passed, not to mention bitter rows over money, design, materials and contractors. "Three times what they said it would cost, isn't it now?" the fireman said, with relish. Yup and the story isn't over yet.
But yesterday morning, on the dot of 12 noon - or 13.35 as the clock at the reception desk insisted, the centrally computer-controlled clocks having succumbed to a touch of the Wembleys - the Bath spa had a new feature for which Wembley would give half an acre of turf: a queue of real people, waiting to spend real money.
It included a genuine gold chain-sporting footballer from London, complete with birthday-celebrating WAG; a grandmother who learned to swim in the scruffy but beloved old municipal baths which closed half her lifetime ago and council leader Paul Crossley's mother Frances - who had a lovely time, which was just as well for him.
The Beckinghams entered a competition last Tuesday and drove yesterday from Weston-super-Mare back to their native town to be among the very first to see the dream come true. The computer took so long to cope with this that the charming staff suggested they go away and get a coffee somewhere. Could they not do so in the brand new cafe, while the machine sorted it out, they asked. The computer, in true Little Britain style, said no.
But the most inveterate moaners agreed that once beyond the clench of technology the water, just as the Celts and Romans believed, was truly divine. After ten hours, according to the clock in the hall, or two hours before I arrived according to the clock in the café, I left as floppy and relaxed as a poached egg.
When journalists tell you how nice something is, it is best to ask: would you go back again, and spend your very own non-tax-deductible, non-refundable-on-expenses money? Well, the retired fireman wouldn't, the retired policeman wouldn't - but I would, and I will.
