Olympic Bid

Lucy, modelling the new British Swim Team 2010 kit*; 1.24pm, yesterday

*Kindly sponsored by the Steroid and Tan Fan! Association

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Do forgive the slight hiatus in blogging: for reasons far too complex and acid-steeped to mention, my mind has been somewhat otherwise engaged of late.

However, in amongst the wide swathes of life's crapness, I'm pleased to report that Lucy and I have been doing our bit to promote British excellence in sport; by competing in the astounding and, erm, challenging event of baby swimming.

Now then, as is manifest in the sadness of my thighs, I'm clearly no expert in the whys and wherefores of any kind of sporting venue. Nonetheless even to my naive eye (and sorrowfully dimpled leg), if the state my local pool is anything to go by then Britain has more than a moonwalk to go before our facilities can pass anything like an Olympian muster.

Entry into my pool is, you see, a bit like well, walking into a chlorine-scented abattoir. A set of cheery, vacuum-packed doors permit entry into the changing room. Here, the flesh of 20 purple-flecked mothers is revealed - all nervously preparing their young on a set of verruca-soaked bassinets, ranged jauntily alongside the sweating, petri-dish walls.

I could go on through the bath of horrors. But fortunately it seems that Lucy has not inherited such a jaundiced view of either the world or of North London's amphibious attractions.

She has, in fact, been unrelentingly joyous at each session: gurgling as yet another arc of stranger's wee is aimed straight onto her towel; chortling when dunked under the sweltering (and slightly yellowey) water; gleefully chewing on the chemicaled floats; and quite literally pissing herself laughing as she yet again manages to undo my bikini top in front of the Polish New Man Dad who insists on calling my daughter Lucian and keeps telling me how "handsome" she is.

Ahh - gender-confusion, a risk of legionnaire's verucca and the exposure of my hideous body - all be damned. As long as Lucy is so clearly delighted I guess it's worth it, and there's always the glory of British sport to consider.

I'll just have to remember to pack the goose fat, plastic socks and slightly less atollian swimwear for next week. Not sure I'll be setting up camp next to Polish New Man Dad again, though.