Thought you might like an insight into how swimming pools work here ...

I need to get fit again. Join a pool. Not the inaffordable Carrasco Lawn Tennis Club pool down the road, but a more democratic one. I ask around.

“Asociación Cristiana de Jóvenes”, I’m told.

[More:]

“They have a good pool. 800 pesos a month.” That's about £25.00 - not bad, I think.

So I jump on my bike – yes, the fitness regime is starting NOW – and ride the 4 kilometers to the sports centre. Uphill. There are very few hills in Uruguay, and they have put one very long one between my house and the Asociación Cristiana de Jóvenes - the Young Christians Association.

“Do I qualify?” I ask the young lady at Reception – meaning for the jovenes bit.

“Sure, but you’ll need a carné de salud.”

“A medical certificate, is that?”

“Yes, you can get it from whatever medical clinic you’re affiliated to.”

I’m a member of SEMM, so I phone to make an appointment.

“Monday morning, nine o’clock, don’t eat anything for twelve hours before, bring a urine sample and a photo and your tetanus certificate.”

On Monday morning I’m all set, apart from the tetanus certificate. I walk into the clinic and am given a form to fill in. They direct me to Room 6: Orthodontics.

“Open your mouth,” the friendly lady doctor says. She taps around, then scribbles on the form and hands it back to me. “Down the corridor to Room 8.”

This is the blood test room. A young doctor ties a rubber strip around my arm, pokes a needle in, asks me to hand over my urine sample, and we’re done.

Next it’s Room 5, blood pressure, weight and height. All fine, except that I have shrunk two centimeters and put on two kilos since I last measured.

Lastly it’s upstairs to the main consultation room. Here a lady doctor tests my eyesight and asks me dozens of questions. I understand the first few: “Any heart trouble in the family? Diabetes? Have you ever suffered from psoriasis?”

No to all of these. We go through my reproductive life in detail. Boy, they’re thorough.

“Do you have athlete’s foot?” No. “Are you sure?” “Absolutely.” “Would you take of your socks? Spread your toes. Okay.”

I’m flummoxed when it comes to questions about measles, mumps, chicken pox and rubella, because I simply do not know the words in Spanish, so I just say yes to them all.

“Tetanus vaccination?”

“I’m afraid not…”

“Well, you can get one across the road at the Española Medical Centre. That’s everything. Bring your tetanus certificate and pick up your medical certificate in two days.”

I cross the busy road to the Española.

“Are you a member?”

“No, but I’d like a tetanus jab.”

“Okay. Room 3.” In I go, and in ten seconds I’m done, free of charge.

They are efficient, these Uruguayans.

Two days later, medical certificate in my basket, I ride back up to the pool. Uphill and very cold.

“Well, it’s not worth your joining today,” the friendly young receptionist tells me, “as you’ll have to pay for the whole of August. Come next week, on the 21st, and you’ll get the rest of August for free when you pay for September.”

Sounds like a good deal. And I’m exhausted anyway. I couldn’t possibly swim today.

So on the 21st I ride to the pool for the third time. Uphill, very cold, and against a fierce biting wind. Today I’m going to crack this.

“Carné?” I proudly hand it over. “Photo?” I have that too. So far so good. I fill in a form and pay.

The receptionist takes me to the Ladies’ changing room. “Do you have a padlock?” Oops. No. No problem, they’ll lend me one. “A swimming cap?” Yes, I remembered that. “Goggles?” No. They aren’t obligatory, but I should bring them next time, as the city council rules have changed and now there’s 24% chlorine instead of 16%.

“Fine. This is how it works. You go into this cubicle here, take off your clothes, wrap up in your towel, put your clothes in the locker, then take your swimsuit and cap in your hand, go and shower, without your bathing suit and using soap. You have your soap, of course.”

“Yes,” I lie. I’m not going to get sent away at this stage, after I’ve done so well.

“Then you put on your swimsuit and cap, and go through the door to the pool.”

On the wall are large signs reading: 'Avoid being observed'. I follow all the instructions carefully, and at last I’m beside the pool. It’s big, clean, and milling with children under six. The noise is deafening – an amplified whirr like crickets and tree frogs in Africa at night. Children are shrieking, running, jumping in and climbing out, and half a dozen exhausted-looking supervisors have given up trying to control them.

All of them, presumably, with clean medical certificates: no athlete's foot, psoriasis, urine infections...

But of the five lanes, the middle one is empty. All for me. I dive in. The water is warm. I feel good.