I was destined never to follow in the footsteps, or arm movements, of Johnny Weissmuller, Mark Spitz or Orca.  

My complete inability to swim; pathological fear of water and dread of putting on a brightly coloured hat were reasons enough to believe south-west London swimming baths and me were not a perfect match.

My mother befriended a family who were, as far as I was concerned, probably mermaids (the women always wore long dresses); their ability in the water made Flipper look sluggish.

Aged 8, in 1965, and swearing at the instructor my mother forced me to have, had me banned from Balham Baths; sniggering and pointing at the “No Petting” sign at Clapham Manor Baths ensured I was thrown out and given a detention during a school swimming gala.

Latchmere Baths, worryingly next to Battersea’s Coroner’s Court, was where I discovered declaring I had a verruca got me put straight back on the 49 Bus straight to my Tooting secondary school.

While I realise it is a useful skill to have, I cannot swim.  I carry a set of water wings with me if ever I travel into to the City and have to cross one of London’s many bridges.

Night Swimming is my favourite R.E.M song; I can only assume Michael Stipe doesn’t mind wearing goggles.