A masterclass in how not to take the kids out swimming

It's happened again, my incredible capacity to make a complete fool of myself.

- Steve Canavan

The kids swimming lessons were cancelled on Wednesday - the teacher has broken her elbow in a karate accident (no, really) - and being a wonderful father (that's my own description, Mrs Canavan's might differ slightly), I decided I'd take them swimming anyway to a different pool.

The lessons they have are at a massive house in a posh area of town, a house so big it has a separate annexe where there is a pool.

Each Wednesday we trek there at half past five and I genuinely think it is the most depressing half-hour of the week, and not just because of the stress and hassle of getting them showered afterwards ("Wilf, for the love of God will you stay still while I'm rubbing shampoo in your hair" 'Argh, it's gone in my eye' "That's because you moved when I was rubbing it in... Mary for god's sake how many times have I told you to wash your conditioner out? Why's your hair bobble in the plug? Wilf, will you stop aiming that shower at me, my trousers are wet through" Then I have a cardiac arrest and fall over).

No, it's depressing because of the huge luxurious house, a house I know I will never be able to own short of winning the lottery or perhaps writing a pop song that becomes a global hit (the latter is still a possibility, I wrote a belter last week called 'If You Leave Me, Please Don't Take The Washing Machine As Well').