On Thursdays.

On Thursdays we drive across town to Hale where the kids take swimming lessons in a Marriot Hotel. After a trip to Australia with a nine and seven year old it struck me that not drowning might be a far more appealing outcome from swimming lessons than the avoidance of a theoretical nonexistent eczema flair up which had been my excuse for nearon 8 years.

To their embarrassment they found themselves in the ‘Tiny Turtles’ class amongst a couple keen three year olds, but they seem to be making progress, and after being told ‘parents aren’t allowed to sit near the pool’ I now sit in the lobby with a book. I often consider whether it’s an elaborate scheme, that they’re not even teaching the kids to swim, that they clear the parents out and don’t let them watch, and just spend half an hour throwing sinkies into the pool. But from the few lessons I did get away with watching, at the start, I’m confident we can give this another few months and they’ll have picked this up.

My years of avoiding this nightmare justified a more private tuition in a hotel pool; my reasoning being that we were paying ‘just a little bit’ more but had gotten away with missing upwards of 60 months of hot, foisty public swimming bath changing rooms thus far and could afford ‘more quality lessons.’

So, each week we enter a middle class swimming lesson realm: another world unknown to many. Sparkly crocs in bubble gum pink, neatly packed lunchboxes with perfectly cut sandwiches. iPads with rubber covers, for him and for her. Spiderman onesies. Swimsuits that fit just so over rounded bottoms, smooth tanned legs. Sunkissed hair. The same mums each week in different exercise leggings. Out of wet swimmers. Into football kit. Snack. Hair dry. Didn’t you do well.