Make My Way Back Home......

....and learn to swim.

It just wouldn't have been the memorable and kicking song it is if the Foos had called it that, would it?

But it's what I'm going to be doing on Sunday. This swimming nut is one that I'm determined to crack. I've mentioned it to you before but, at forty three, I possess swimming skills that are about as much use as a one legged man at an arse kicking party, though I mean no offence to one legged men or arse party organisers when I say that.

It's just that swimming for me has never been the enjoyable and relaxing drift leisurely around a pool and tone up the muscles while enjoying the view thing that it is for so many. A width of a pool is something I can do, but it involves huffing and puffing like I'm a chain smoker trying to run a marathon.

I can't get through that barrier of trying to cover as much ground, or water, as quickly as possible before I sink so it becomes a blur of urgently swinging arms and desperately kicking legs. I have spoken to the Gypsy about this and she has agreed that, should she ever see me drowning, she'll think about saving me before she saves herself.

Frankly that's not much of a plan. It would mean taking her everywhere with me and even that's only if she agrees to save me.

Before I came to Lanka a couple of weeks ago I bought myself a book on swimming, not about the history of it and whatnot, this is about how to actually do it. The blurb seemed to describe me, without mentioning the witty, good looking and intelligent aspects. It said that the book was for people who could swim, but with my level of incompetence.

I read the first chapter before hitting the motherland and my first splashabout was mind boggling. Things happened and I immediately felt more relaxed and less stressed in the water. Which was nice. But, after that progress was stunted, limited and bloody hard work.

Call me old fashioned, though please not in relation to my sense of fashion and style in general, but I don't think a book is the best medium for learning to swim. It's better than nothing for sure, but reading a bit from my lounger then jumping in the pool and trying to recall what I've read as well as actually doing it, just isn't easy.

Most of the time I'd forgotten the instructions once I got in the water. When I did remember them I was usually so busy concentrating on saving myself from drowning that I'd forget all thoughts of learning to swim. This is the key to my problem; that the swimming bit is easy, if not for the survival issue.

I persevered in Lanka though and my skills definitely got better, just nowhere near the level required by me.

So this Sunday morning, for three hours, if you so desire you'll catch me at a public swimming pool somewhere in the London area having a private swimming lesson. The chap says on his website that he'll give one to one instruction, that he'll be in the water with me at all times and that I'll go away with loads of things to work on that will help me to swim like a fish.

I'm excited about it but also a little bit nervous. The nerves are mostly at the thought of six year old chav kids steaming past me and laughing at the old bloke struggling and huffing. Or the instructor perhaps telling me that I'm just not destined to swim. Does that happen? I know that languages aren't one of my strong points, nor is art, but can swimming be one of those things?

The excitement is a massively positive feeling that the three hours will break the back of the problem and that I'll be a committed, relaxed and confident swimmer afterwards, that I'll be able to swim with my kids and not have to worry about drowning and being saved by one of them, particularly K, who'd probably make me sign a form agreeing to a raise in her allowance beforehand.

That's what I'll be doing on Sunday. I'll tell you how I got on.

Happy weekend all.