Malachy (can’t sing, won’t sing) Clerkin
There has been a lurgy in our house for the past fortnight. The baby got it, the daddy got it, the mammy lived in fear of getting it. You probably have it, just from reading this. Nothing about it was fun or interesting.
Why mention it, so? Well, after all the progress of the first three weeks, getting back into the pool post-lurgy felt like swimming with rocks attached to my ankles. After about half a length, my arms ached as though I’d been giving Tarzan a run for his money swinging from tree to tree. I was – and I believed this is the scientific term for it – banjaxed.
Peter The Coach has a new wheeze whereby he gets us to sing to ourselves with each stroke in order to encourage rhythm.
The Sound Of Music, Ruby Tuesday and Let It Be are his chosen tracks, which tells you a little about just what a hip, happening daddio we have for a swim coach.
It's all very well, except every time I reach the end of a length, The Sound Of Music is me coughing up a lung, a liver and quite possibly a bit of heel.
Let it Be has been replaced by Let It Be Over. And Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday? More like Go F*** Yourself, Ruby Tuesday. And What Sort Of Stupid Name Is Ruby Tuesday Anyway?
Maybe I just need to think of different tunes. Down, Down, Deeper and Down? The Bends?
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