Swimming in the provinces

One of the hardest things to give up when leaving Stokey was Rosa's

4 o'clock swimming lesson. Don't get me wrong, I hated her swimming lessons: smelly, packed changing rooms, getting two children undressed and dressed again, hanging out with Joe in the freezing cold pool while 30 minutes took forever and not even being able to do a few lengths to warm up. (OK, so I usually did sneak in a few lengths but it looked a bit bad leaving a toddler bobbing up and down in armbands on his own.)
But I'd fought for those lessons. I'd got up at 6am to make sure she got a place. I endured 3 terms of 5pm lessons so that I could have the privilege of moving to a 4pm slot. And blow me if I was going to go through all that again.

So swimming lessons didn't feature high on my list of things to arrange in Lancashire. Then I began to feel that middle-class angst. Rosa had just started to swim without aids, she was gaining in confidence, she needed a regular commitment BLAH BLAH BLAH. Tentatively I phone the local swimming pool to find out what ghastly application process they use. Perhaps I could just put her on a waiting list. But the lady on reception was actually friendly. She was helpful. She seemed to even want my daughter to swim at her pool. "How about 4pm today?"
she asked.

And it was that easy. The pool was pleasantly empty. The other kids and their parents seemed lovely. The teacher was spot on. And Rosa took to it like a duck to water, albeit with a learner sign on her tail feathers.