Last updated 13:36, Thursday, 15 May 2008

FOR the first time in around 30 years, I dipped my tubby frame into the welcoming waters of Hexham swimming baths at the weekend.

Having been there when it opened, I thought the least I could do was to pay it another visit before it is superseded by the posh new pool rearing its considerable bulk over the Wentworth car park.

I was surprised to find the Hexham Pool had changed little, with the notable exception of the removal of those noxious foot baths you had to plodge through to reach the water.

These were a feature of every pool I ever went to, each with the stench of industrial-strength disinfectant, and filled with a viscous urine-coloured fluid; every one, in my experience, also containing at least one slowly drifting sticking plaster, laden with more germs than the local tip.

It was supposed to ward off verrucae, athlete’s foot and all other podiatric ailments, but few youngsters of my acquaintance ever went through it, preferring to tightrope across the narrow sides of the bath, or clear it with a Lynn Davies leap.

Hygiene has clearly moved on since those days, but it was comforting to see that there were still notices spattered about the place banning things that made the baths so appealing to non-swimmers like me.

No diving, no bombing, no larking about ... there may have been one saying no enjoying yourself, but my glasses had steamed up by this time.

I was there with Mrs Hextol, and all three grandchildren, and even Argus would have been hard pressed to keep an eye on them all at the same time.

Getting them all changed was a nightmare, especially 18-month-old Alex, who howled the place down when he lost sight of his beloved Nana when she disappeared to get changed.

Trying to hold one bawling tot, while reining in two others keen to get to the water was something of a challenge.

I had forgotten just how small those cubicles are, and how inadequate they were for a man of my girth.

It was bad enough getting my trousers off, but things were exacerbated when I tried to hang them up, and sent coins cascading to the farthest realms of the changing rooms, to be fallen upon and borne away by small boys as if at a church gate wedding hoy-oot.

In addition, the bathing apparel Mrs Hextol had packed for me left much to be desired.

I have long been a devotee of old style swimming trunks, as worn by Olympic swimmers until the present crop of high tec all-in-one moon suits came into vogue.

Mrs Hextol is of the opinion that my advancing years and globular shape mean I am too old for such garments, and insists I wear more commodious swimming shorts.

That is all very well, but she failed to take account of the fact that pursuing three small children round a large swimming pool is considerably more demanding on a fat man than lolling on a Mediterranean beach.

I pulled the drawstring so tight I was left with a big red ring round my belly, and still they required hoisting every couple of minutes.

When one child escaped, and made a determined break for the outside door, I was obliged to clamber from the water like an elephant seal beaching itself on some remote rocky outcrop in the South Atlantic.

Squeals of outrage from Mrs Hextol, and the averted eyes of fellow pool users, indicated that as tight as I had pulled the drawstring of the shorts, it was still not tight enough to prevent several acres of hairy buttock being exposed to all and sundry.

Three-year-old Abbey was fine as long as she could put her feet on the bottom – if not, she clung round my neck more fiercely than the largest limpet.

Six-year-old Erin swam like a mermaid, shooting round the pool like Aqua Marina on her way to rescue Troy Tempest from the Aquaphibians.

She challenged me to an underwater swimming contest, a gauntlet I could not resist – until after 15 seconds I realised I was no longer wearing my spectacles. I had to find them by groping around on the pool tiles, while she hooted with delight.

Having seldom seen me naked from the waist up, she then found further amusement by winkling out all the white hairs on my chest, and ripping them out one by one.