Today Piglet and I went to swimming class.
I love swimming class. I loved our old swimming class more, if truth be told, as even though the pool was a bit on the chilly side it was a two minute walk from my flat, and there weren’t three different swimming classes going on at the same time, consisting of different age groups, so that you struggle to hear your own instructor above the din. However, the new swimming class is OK.
We do have to get the bus though, and the buses are only once an hour on Sundays.
I KNOW. Once. An. Hour. Apparently that is how things roll down here in the provinces. Also how things roll is that when you get on the bus, everyone ignores you while you spend five minutes trying to fold down a Bugaboo because SOME FAT CHAVVY WOMAN WITH A CHILD WHO IS BIG ENOUGH TO GO TO WORK cannot be bothered to remove her own enormous, school-aged child from their tiny and very easy to fold down pushchair and onto the empty seat next to her.
Not that I am judging or anything. Oh no. Far be it for me to judge another.
Also, on an entirely different note, what is it with all these dads taking their babies swimming and then getting THEIR WIVES to change the babies? Like, I get it daddy, you want to do all the fun stuff but not any of the boring tedious stuff like changing the little mite out of their wet swimming outfit whilst they try and grab a nearby traffic cone (I mean, what was a traffic cone even doing in the changing rooms, I ask you?) and swing it about your head, or chase a little Piglet around a changing room in the buff in full view of everyone when they start heading towards the door and out onto the poolside. I can only imagine that the men’s changing rooms are a veritable zen-like haven of tranquility more befitting an expensive spa resort than the swimming pool of a secondary school, as there must be ABSOLUTELY NO CHILDREN IN THERE.
However, at least there are no cumbersome buggies hanging around (except mine) as everyone drives to the pool.
Drives! Fancy that!
I can’t even drive. I am not worthy of the name of parent. This must be why Piglet today referred to Granny as Mumma.
In other news, he can now say an actual, verified word. A real one.
It is regrettably not Mumma (at least not aimed at the correct person. Usually it’s “where’s your mummy Piglet?” and he points at a lightbulb, nearby table or other random object, before gleefully shouting his only genuine verified word, which is “BALL!”
Today there was a ball in the swimming pool, and he practically swam independently across the pool, shouting “Ball! Ball!” he was so desperate to grab it. I was puffed up with pride at my child’s way with words. For all his love of balls, if Piglet doesn’t grow up to be a famous sportsman I will be astonished. Perhaps we should choose a sport other than swimming, in order to reflect his true interest. Water polo, anyone? Does that even involve a ball?