Reluctant swimming dad - going for gold
Together with his bad memories of swimming lessons, Paul has been charged with taking his three-year-old daughter swimming. Will he become a swimming convert. Follow his blog below to find out.
So it turns out that pot-bellied, heavily tattooed bruiser dad from last week doesn't like football. Is that possible? I mean he is a man. Our key claim to counter women's arguments that we can't multi-task is that we can pour a drink while shouting at the referee on TV.
By the time she grasps the duck I have been transported to Liverpool's Champions League victory over AC Milan in 2005. I half expect ticker tape to rain down and the crowd to rush the pool.
OK I don't really mean that, but not liking football? It seems...unpatriotic. But as he is much bigger than me I simply agree that the way people go on about it all the time can be boring and concede that sports such as swimming need wider coverage.
In fact, as he is very much bigger than me I agree to look more into aquatics - a new word for me - in general. Meanwhile, Bea is flapping across the water, woggle protruding like pasta wings in a desperate bid to reach a red duck. The closer yellow ones are inferior apparently.
As all the other children and parents are now back at the side having secured closer ducks, I work to avoid the swimming teacher's impatient glances by pondering on what I know about aquatics. And as I said last week, this isn't much.
I watched an Olympic Dreams programme on the BBC a couple of weeks ago. It had synchronised swimmers featured. Very graceful. A real eye opener. I wonder if Bea will follow them one day as she thrashes in an ungainly way at the duck that refuses to stay still.
Then there was the young lad Tom Daley on Sky's A League Of Their Own. He seemed a nice lad. He wasn't doing much diving of course, but seemed to like a good laugh. And of course Rebecca Adlington. And...and...well that's it.
Heavily tattooed bruiser dad is joining the throng of parents now cheering Bea on in her battle with the duck. A third dad has appeared this week - let's call him young, angular but not too bright dad. He is also cheering her on, as are all the mothers. The children join in.
By the time she grasps the duck I have been transported to Liverpool's Champions League victory over AC Milan in 2005. I half expect ticker tape to rain down and the crowd to rush the pool. And I think to myself that pot-bellied, heavily tattooed bruiser dad could have a point.
Just a three-year-old in the water chasing a duck had become a spectator sport. OK, a tongue-in-cheek one, but still something to cheer on. And as she scrabbles back with my support to the side of the pool I make the decision to look more at sports in the water.
So, I will update you each time I take Bea swimming, and see if I can be drawn towards the wet side. Meanwhile, Bea holds her duck. "You have to let go now darling," I say. "Let go please." No chance. It might as well be a gold medal.
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2.02pm 23rd June 2010
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