No shit Sherlock

He’s had a haircut, I observed of the young gym manager handling someone’s query at the hotel reception desk.  “Hello mate,” I said, and bleeped my membership card under the scanner to unlock the door, not commenting on his haircut.  He replied in kind and I flicked a glance over my shoulder at his customer, just as the customer looked up from his administration towards me.

Millions have been snared by the soulful eyes of Benedict Cumberbatch, from the stage, screen, magazines and newspapers.  He’s especially great for the page, almost naturally 3D, and this week vying with Dr Who on the Radio Times cover.  Seeing him there wasn’t entirely out of context as I’d just read an excited tweet from a writer of the Sherlock series which Cumberbatch was in town to shoot.

Ooh look, it’s him, I thought, as we both looked away.  Thought he’d have had a better hotel.

I hauled myself into the changing room with the faint shame that comes from visiting the place without intending to do any sort of workout.  Tired from a family weekend involving entertaining children and charming old people, I just wanted a steam, sauna and maybe a soak.

As I began to undress, he glided into the otherwise empty changing room behind me, radiating the easy grace of someone well-used to commanding attention.

Faced with celebrity at such close quarters, you’re never quite sure whether to engage them, or just let them get on with what they’re doing.  I’m sure many females would have happily traded position with me at that moment and simply watched, entranced by his being.  The comments below and wildly inflated traffic directed from numerous fansites would seem to support this.

Yet here was the sort of setting – empty gym changing room, Sunday evening – when it was natural to exchange a few civil words with someone, so I chanced conversation.

“Filming starts tomorrow, right?  I saw one of the writers’ tweets just now.”

“Oh, he’s been tweeting, has he?”

There ensued a few minutes debate about Twitter, only broken when he realised he didn’t have a pound coin needed for the locker and I offered him one.  He declined: “God no, it’ll be fine.  There’s nothing of value in there anyway.”  Really?!  I thought.  Selling his mobile phone to a tabloid fleetingly scurried through my brain.

The chat even continued while he used a urinal.  It was clear he had no time for Twitter and couldn’t see how others did.  I understood why it holds no appeal or necessity for him: a widely admired, successful young bloke with an instant audience and network.  However, I tried to persuade him that there are many others who really do have the time, in fact far too much of it. Like me.  There are others not blessed with a network or audience as immediate.  On top of this, it serves all kinds of purposes in business and socially.  I wanted to transmit this without giving a strong impression that I was the kind of needy tosser he derides.

“Have a good swim,” he said, leaving the changing room before me, his antipathy towards Twitter unshaken.  Again I felt guilty that I wasn’t planning on swimming or doing anything that required exertion.  Hampered by an aching lower back I even felt slow changing into swimming shorts, then doubled back for a pee before heading to the steam room.

After several minutes of solitary time in the steam room, a heavy breathing Cumberbatch entered.  I wasn’t sure if he was disappointed to see me: oh, not him again, don’t talk to me – so I showed no sign of recognition for a couple of minutes.  He’d just done his lengths in the pool and glugged hungrily from a water bottle.

Ah, bollocks, I thought.  “Good scripts then?” I asked, as if seamlessly resuming our earlier conversation.  Still recovering regular breathing and taking in water, he nodded.  “Very good,” he said, “less establishing is needed for this series so they’re quite different.” I didn’t know what else to say after that, so let the silence hang.  “Going to the sauna,” he added soon after.  “See you in a bit.”  He stood up and left.

This left me with a dilemma because the sauna was my next planned stop.  But I didn’t want him to think I was stalking him so gave it a few minutes.

Hell, I wasn’t going to be guilt-tripped into not taking a sauna by Benedict Cumberbatch.

I exited the steam room, showered, walked several footsteps, opened the sauna door, enjoyed the warm blast, and sat down.  It was empty except for him.  He probably hates me now, I thought.  I won’t say anything else.  Instead I stared blankly at the floor, like people do in saunas.

“This your local gym then?” he asked.  Quickly followed by “lived around here long?” and “what do you do?”   Fuck Ben, I’m an aimless freelance nobody with an anonymous online identity because I’m a spineless lonely man necessarily protecting a boring professional identity.  Let’s not talk about me.  You’re an actor at the top of his game who’s short skip away from Hollywood, if you want it.  That’s a bit more interesting.

I didn’t actually say that, of course.  By way of compromise I steered discussion onto areas of London we were both familiar with, the things Cardiff and Wales has to offer.  We each shared a dash of family history.

There was a brief but comfortable pause.

I expressed my guilt at going to the gym without doing any work.  He said I should swim, just a few lengths to get the heart pumping.  I didn’t impose the story of my dodgy swimmer’s ear.  He told me he’d just done thirty lengths, really fast and really badly, but it was enough.  It was true.  The naturally neon Cumberbatch face was glowing even more than usual.  I could easily imagine him doing meditative exercise too: yoga, pilates, or Tai Chi.

Rising to leave, he said that regular exercise was good because filming could get really boring at times; lots of hanging around on set, just as bad as any office job.  I openly spluttered my disagreement and his expression conceded that it was probably an unfair comparison. We bade each other goodbye for the last time.

He was replaced in the sauna by two local guys, some distance apart in age but joined by their love of Cardiff City Football Club.  We discussed the club’s PlayOff chances and the decapitation of a British holidaymaker in Tenerife.  The younger man threatened to chop someone’s fuckin head off if Cardiff lost to Swansea in the PlayOff final.