Let's just float

There’s something I’ve been meaning to try over the last three years in Edinburgh; going down to Stockbridge and floating in a big plastic egg full of salty water. This is what you do at the Edinburgh Floatarium. Essentially it’s a sensory deprivation experience.

I suppose it didn’t help having the caffeine from a large cup of Crum’s weapons-grade coffee coursing through my veins, but rather than inducing a state of blissful relaxation and meditative oneness with the universe, the experience of floating in the dark in a big plastic bucket brought on feelings varying from extreme boredom to paranoia. I kept thinking about Bond films; what if they opened up a little hatch somewhere under the water line, and let in just one small and hungry piranha? What if they very slowly turned up the heat of the water, sealed down the lid and pressure-cooked me? Then there’s the boredom; after they turn off the new age music that plays for the first fifteen minutes (at least they do turn it off, which is one comfort) you just lie there in the dark floating. But the egg thing isn’t that big and you can easily the touch the sides by stretching your arms out. So you try not to. But you are actually drifting, and as it’s dark, you don’t know in what direction. This means that every so often you bob gently into one of the sides. After a while, this consumes your entire thoughts. Which body part is going to hit next? The head, your left arm, your big toe? Maybe a little gentle paddling will move you back to the centre, but too much is going to hit you on to the opposite wall. Then there’s the sensory deprivation thing. Your senses aren't deprived at all, they’re crying out to you that you’re floating in a big plastic bucket full of salty water in the dark. And it is salty; before you get in you’re warned to put Vaseline on any cuts and abrasions, but I soon realized I had various little spots and sore bits I didn’t even know about, but once immersed in a strong solution of Epsom salts my supposedly deprived senses started telling me all about them.

When I came out, it was dark and rainy. I’d chained the bike to some railings a little further down the hill, where the path starts that runs up the Water of Leith to Dean village. It took a couple of minutes to get the bike locks off and put the saddle back, and just as I was scrabbling under the bike to get a chain off, in, in other words, a fairly vulnerable position, this guy started talking to me from about 6in. behind my ear. It may not be quite 6ft. in the air that I jumped but it was close. In fact he was a quite nice, if eccentric guy who wanted to tell me that he and his dog had been watching out for the bike. However, I suspect that floating naked in a big plastic bucket in somebody elses basement for an hour had indeed changed my mood to a certain feeling of defensiveness. Cycling home through the bottom end of the New Town, with 90% of the route being over cobbles, in the rain and dark and dodging homicidal taxis meant that by the time I got home I felt more stressed out than I had in a long time. Fortunately that man Crum had the ideal answer in the shape of yet another obscure Malt he wanted an opinion on, and thence to the pub.

So all in all, not the best way to spend 25 quid. Not nearly as much fun, or as pleasant, as going swimming and/or taking a good leisurely soak in the tub, preferably with candles and some nice music. And Gwyneth Paltrow.