Immense gratification
I have never once turned head over heels. Neither have I ever swum or played football or rugger, but I have played cricket now and then on the back lawn.
In my early years my father, my big brother and everyone else who felt their mission in life was to make a man of me insisted daily that I should at least learn to swim.
Being by nature a peacemaker I would allow Dad and my older brother Arthur every Saturday morning to march me down the cinder path of the local ‘rec’, a recreation ground with swings, roundabout, see-saw and, unfortunately, an open-air swimming pool.
The limit of my partaking in this weekly ritual was to splash about at the shallow end. I think I developed a fair imitation of somebody swimming whilst not actually doing so.
On what was to be the last of these visits I took a long time to change into what was then called the ‘swimming costume’. I did not like cold water, in the early morning or at any other time. I heard Dad and Arthur give my my cubicle door a bang as they padded wetly past and that slowed me down even more.
I emerged from my cubicle and looked round to see what were the chances of being pushed in by some idiot. I stood watching Dad and Arthur swimming, racing each other. They reached the rail, spluttering and laughing and began teasing me about my apparent reluctance actually to get in the water. I tried to semaphor the message that they should hang on a bit, be patient, as I was merely thinking.
Then something gave me a shove between the shoulder blades.
Spewing heavily-chlorinated water, I found the bottom and stood up. My companions were treading water, snorting and laughing their heads off. The boy who did it was also laughing with delight, doubled-up, slapping his legs, whooping with joy. Immense gratification all round.
Well, I’ve always liked to oblige.
Text and illustration ©Paul Wigmore 2010