Rebecca Adlington. Michael Phelps. Jaws. All famous for one thing and one thing only – their ability to glide through water with great natural agility and grace (obviously I’m talking about Jaws the shark, not Jaws the Bond villain – I never got to see him swim, or Oddjob for that matter; they’re just a couple on the long list of ‘must-see Bond swimmers’ that I’ve missed out on. You can’t go back. Also, I’ve just realised that Jaws the shark is, on balance, probably more well known for being a ruthless killing machine rather than for his swimming prowess. Let’s just forget that I mentioned Jaws).
Connie, our 5 year-old, has expressed a desire to join this exclusive list. Naturally we’re aware that it could be a long while before she’s regarded as an established household swimming name like Scaramanga, but even the longest of journeys start with a single splash, so her and I speculatively dipped our toes in at the local pool yesterday to see if she sank or swam.
I haven’t been to a big public swimming pool in a while, and I found the nostalgic romance of it all in the build-up quite intoxicating. The chlorine. The little lockers. The plug holes full of stranger’s hair and plasters. The shrill lifeguard whistles of justice. But would it be the same? And more importantly, would I still be able to remember how to do my trademark ‘thrashing around like a horse in quicksand’ stroke?
I’m by no means up to the standard of Phelps etc. I’d put myself a rung below in the intermediate/expert category – no need for armbands, but could still probably drown in a washing up bowl in the garden if I were left unsupervised for more than half an hour. I achieved my Frog Award at school and it sits proudly at the top of my CV, mainly because its worth more than the pitiful number of UCAS points I managed to accrue from my A levels. I remember my Frog Examination like it was yesterday – stood on the side of my Primary School pool in my Thomas the Tank Engine pyjamas with my heart in my mouth, knowing full well that the only way I’d make the incredible transformation from tadpole to frog would be by successfully diving to the bottom of the pool and emerging with a rubber brick like a graceful pearl diver. The ceremonial school assembly that would follow would be one of the proudest moments of my life, and whilst I thankfully haven’t needed to make use of this lifeskill yet, I’m proud to be highly decorated enough to dive into a pond decked out in my pyjamas should anyone need any breeze-blocks rescuing in the dead of night.
Once we got past the noisy hairdryers in the changing rooms, Connie loved it. She swung round my neck crushing my windpipe like a boa constrictor as we romped our way around the ‘Leisure Pool’, her occasionally criticising other swimmer’s strokes (‘he’s not very good at swimming, is he daddy?’ – harsh but fair assessments – most of her targets were under the age of 6). She then spent some 10 minutes sat panicking atop a tiny slide, some 2 feet above the pool clutching on to the sides for dear life, looking down at her trajectory like she was at the top of the cresta run. Before long she was repeatedly sliding down into my outstretched arms, squeaking with glee as I caught her at the bottom like a slippery rugby ball. I made a few vague attempts to start teaching her my trademark stroke, but it occurred to me that me trying to teach Connie to swim would be a bit like Donald Trump trying to teach Harry Hill about how he should be styling his hair – I promptly gave up before I did more harm than good.
We finished our trip sat in the cafe, eyes bright red from all the chlorine, eating big wedges of cake and discussing Minecraft, looking and sounding like a pair of sixth formers on a munchie run.
In other news – Betting is currently suspended on the Moana/Spirit front as a large upset looks to be on the cards. Spirit needs to dig deep if he’s to make up the ground.
I haven’t been able to bring myself to eat a hot jolly rancher in three days. They’re in Sarah’s glovebox and they’re going a bit sticky.
Dream calendar is clear tomorrow. A mystery day. Lawnmower shop? Prescription footwear centre? Place your bets.
Have a good day.
