The male changing room: where social rules are the wrong way round.

PARKING’S ridiculous in this town," says the man.

"Er... yes," I say.

"Council needs to do something about it," he says, shuffling about a bit.

"Yup," I reply.

"Probably raking it in from all those fees," he says. "Should use the money to build some decent roads."

"Yeah, councils..." I mutter. "All that money and paper and stuff."

"Just greedy," he says, waving his arms around.

"Yeah," I say, "Anyway, nice talking to you."

"Hmm," he says, before turning round and wobbling away. I can tell he's wobbling because he doesn't have any clothes on.

The changing rooms of my local leisure centre, like changing rooms across the country, are rife with these kind of exchanges.

It's an environment in which the traditionally British hobby of having dull conversations about basically nothing is combined with the decidedly un-British hobby of being nude.

Out in the real world, nudity is one of the things most likely to prevent a chat about traffic and the weather:

"Been getting lighter in the evenings again. Nice to see, that."

"Yes. Do you realise you're naked?"

"Oh my, so I am! I'm terribly sorry."

"It's alright. Don't do it again."

"No, of course. Right, pump number 4 and a Twix please."

"That'll be £34.50."

However, within the confines of the locker room, the social rules are skewed.

You can't ask somebody to stop being naked when the main purpose of your location is to facilitate the changing of clothing, so the best plan – a plan apparently agreed upon by a committee of early cave-dwellers so that no men would ever, ever need to discuss it again – is simply to pretend the nudity isn't there. And few things facilitate that better than a spot of idle banter.

Witness, if you ever have the chance, two men who slightly know each other saying hello in a changing room.

There's a "Hi Frank" and an "Alright Dave" followed by the kind of uncomfortable silence you could cut with a sharp spoon as they each begin to disrobe.

This is not a desirable state of affairs for Frank and Dave, neither of whom regularly socialise in the nude.

But the discomfort only lasts until one of them says: "See the game last night?" and then they're off, nattering away on autopilot like two entirely clothed people having a perfectly reasonable conversation in the street.

They've hit on a topic which will last them until they leave, and the sense of relief is palpable.

The problem is that some people take it too far. The wobbly leisure centre man and I were just passing on the thoroughfare between the lockers and the shower. He could have easily trundled past looking at his feet. He didn't need to talk to me. He certainly didn't need to stand in my way and embark on an animated rant about parking fees.

Men are often accused of failing to maintain eye contact with women, for a range of reasons. Turns out it’s equally tricky with a portly bloke jumping up and down in front of you in the buff. You have to just look straight ahead, mutter some noises of agreement and wait for him to go away.

This might all be different in the women's changing rooms. The last time I was in one of those, I was about four years old, and heaven knows how they might have changed since.

Back then it was like the gents with more cubicles, but I imagine these days they have flowers, pot pourri, perfume dispensers, fruit bowls, carpeting, gold-plated mirrors, a pianist tinkling away on a grand in the corner and a nice lady selling tea and cakes on Sundays to raise money for the hospital. Women get all the luck.

Then again, they probably still have to talk to naked strangers about the council. That's some consolation.