Swimming

From the outside, Zaha Hadid's Aquatic Centre is beautiful. From within it's a little bit compromised by its own aesthetics. Even the rows of seats midway up the enormous stands have virtually no view of any of the spectators on the opposite side of the pool, which detracts from the atmosphere terribly. The sightlines, even from the nosebleeds, are better than advertised, but the acoustics are not. Very hard to hear anything at all from the PA system, and harder still to make out what is being said. They seem to have borrowed a tannoy from Kings Cross. The seats are roomy and comfortable, at least.

Watching my first swim meet was an odd experience. After muffled exertions to 'make some noise' for half an hour before the swimmers emerged, they competed with very little fanfare. The organisation was impeccable – almost no time between races, and the ballet of synchronised volunteers ferrying kit and boxes around was oddly compelling when viewed from above.

There would be more atmosphere with some process that allowed impartial spectators to choose someone to support. As it is, faced with the early round of qualifying that contain competitors from the likes of Kuwait and Andorra, you pick on a hunch and never have any sense of anyone else's allegiances, which makes for a curiously detached experience. The Kuwaiti and Andorran are their nations' sole representatives in the swimming, which sounds like it must make for a slightly lonely experience. I hope they bond with each other, at least.

Being in the venue makes you think about a whole raft of human angles that you never consider at home. The swimmer who finishes seventeenth on a list of sixteen qualifiers, the journeys to get to that point cut short by a few fractions of a second.

Michael Phelps certainly doesn't give any indication of being The Greatest Olympian Of All Time. He's beaten into third in his heat, but it's hard to get a sense of how much he worked for it. There was a stretch when he kicked up a gear, and then he seemed to be able to exit the water faster and further on his butterfly stroke than anyone else in the field. Bowie comes on the tannoy talking about wanting to swim like the dolphins can swim. Apt. In this event, the seventeenth swimmer is a Brit. Four years is a long time to think about missing a qualification, but when it's the only sout you'll ever get at a home one it must be agony.

The slightly quiet centre suddenly buzzes to life late on. The noisiest sets of visiting fans are the Hungarians and Americans. There's one of each up against a British girl in the medley relay. Now it feels like a final. The American wins and the ubiquitous U-S-A chant fills the bleachers.

At the close of the session I manage to sneak into the prime seats poolside for a look around. The perspective is totally different, like seeing an airport from the runway after you've flown into it. Actually it's more like stepping off your plane – the temperature is different, the smell of chlorine is suddenly present. Oh to be able to afford to sit here on a finals night, to see the eyes of the competitors as the file out and take their marks... and after the race. Down here you're watching people swim, upstairs it's more like being in the war room, seeing small blocks moved around a table, aware of their significance but disconnected from it.

Outside the crowds leave and groups of star-spangled Americans gravitate to TV cameras like magnets, hoping to prove to those back home that they really are in London. They have a great knack for it - so I leave them to it and instead revive l'entente cordiale with the French.