Blast from the past: The hell of school swimming lessons
An unflattering 1970s brown swimsuit, circulation-stopping armbands, leaky googles, and the faff of cramming waist-long hair into a restrictively tight swimming cap....these are my memories of learning to swim.
In P6, with our swimming things packed into a Spar plastic bag or a handmade tote that doubled as a gutties’ bag, we would leave our warm classroom to pile into the ancient school minibus to be driven the four miles to the swimming baths at a nearby high school.
There followed the mortification of getting undressed in front of classmates, before walking through a puddle of disinfectant to the main event – the grubby swimming pool.
As swimming resistant as a cat, I’d watch my friends dive in like little Duncan Mayhews. Why did I hate it? There was the (very real) threat of verrucas, the eye-stinging chlorine smell, floating plasters and other unmentionables - not great if you are of delicate disposition - and a butch, shouty swimming teacher, who looked like she had walked straight out of an episode of Prisoner Cell Block H.
Afterwards it would be back to the changing rooms, for a quick rinse under the shower, whilst a savage hunger gathered momentum. My friends loved swimming lessons. But, different strokes, for different folks, and all that.