Changing rooms were a nightmare for me as a kid. I could spend 45 minutes looking for my locker after a visit to the pool. Worse still was when at the embarrassingly shy age of about 11, I spent a good ten minutes poking and jabbing my key at various locks before an attendant asked what I was doing. Miss Goodie-Two-Shoes wanted to point out that he was in the wrong place. Then I realised I was surrounded by blurry images of people with dangly bits.

Once safely reunited with my eyewear (and in the correct changing room), it was more than apparent that the writhing mass of unathletic women around me were performing Houdini-esque contortions in order to get dressed without revealing an inch of skin.

At around the same age, I would leaf through one of our home tomes of photographic encyclopaedias to the page about hammams. Images of steamy rooms, archways, patterned tiles, women in various states of undress who were lounging, chatting, being scrubbed and massaged with frangrant oils introduced me to a strange world where women didn’t appear to be shy of their bodies.

Full of these heady images, and quite a few years later, I went to the gym in Egypt for the first time. There was a locker room packed full of women getting changed, and chatting to and over each other after our class. I peeled off my trackie bottoms, picked up my jeans and the room went quiet.

Hear a pin drop silent.

I looked up. A room full of eyes were looking at my flabby, years-of-living-in-Scotland-white behind (which, clad in a g-string they had a good view of). Pairs of eyes then moved up to meet mine to give me the sort of disapproval appropriate had I just stripped and done a private pole dance in front of their husbands.

Well, since moving to The Hood, I’ve not seen them, somewhat remarkably, but last night they reappeared.

“What about you, what are you going to wear?”

“Ok, let’s stop talking now, the class is beginning.”

“Mmmm. I’m thinking of that skirt, you know the one? The long one.” She said indicating the length on her calf.

“Oh yes…”

“Ok, let’s stop talking..”

“..I know, that’s nice..”

“..the class is going to start. No more talking.”

“..I’m going to wear my Esprit suit with heels.”

“Hey, no more talking. From now on, the only person you can talk to is me.”

“Oh, I like that suit, yes, that’s will be good. I can’t decide whether I should wear heels or flats.”

“I think heels. Which ones?”

“Ok, the only person you can talk to is me. All attention on me…”

“I was thinking about..”

“..I’m cute. All attention on me.” He continued lightheartedly.

“..the brown ones.”

Oh, yes, I’d missed them: the gym ladies. These are the rich Egyptian women who come to the gym in full makeup and jewelry.

This discussion was how the spinning class I went to last night began. The women were sitting three bikes away from each other. In good form, the instructor remained relaxed throughout this beginning (he can’t get angry, they are ‘clients’ and therefore superior to him). How did the muscly man get them to shut up? They soon refocused their attention when he took off his baggy shorts to reveal cycling shorts.

Full make up and jewellery was my first introduction to a gym here. It wasn’t even the best gym in Cairo. Women obsessed with the owner/aerobics instructor’s behind would fight to get centre front row in order to have the best view - I wish I was kidding. One woman, and remember we’re in a conservative country, actually came to an aerobics class wearing hot pants, tan tights, white pop socks and black trainers. Oh, and large hoop earings.

The hierarchy amongst the women was strong and competition fierce. One, Dina, had her spot and NOBODY would go in the front row on the far left (not even me in a bad mood). I never found out exactly what would happen if someone did, but didn’t want to!

Pre class chats would invariably be about what they ate that day “I had a giiii-norrrrr-mousssss piece of cho-co-late cake”, “Really? You’re lucky you can eat that and keep your figure. I had brrrro-cco-li”.

After a few months of mutual sweating, I found out that these women would come to aerobics classes every morning too. Some of them lived an hour drive away. Not that they drove, that’s what drivers are for, but still, four hours a day in the car just to get to the gym??? Buy a workout video.

I did actually buy a workout video once. Some MTV hiphop workout that was pretty fun in all honesty. Amazingly, about two months later the gym started hiphop classes. First class and I thought something was familiar. Seems the instructor had watched the same video as I had and forgotten to modify it! I got a few dirty looks from make-up clad laydees because I could do the routine with no effort, while they were looking uncool figuring out the difference between their ass and their elbows. Decided to keep my dirty secret to myself and let them suffer!