The child, whose name was Dave, or Davey, or something like that, insisted on making political comments in between instructions.
“Brexit is going really well,” said Davey. “We will soon have all the poor boys out of the pool. That’s what it’s all about innit. Do you like my St George swimming trunks?”
His mother, Terry, encouraged her son as he puffed and splashed.
Little Dave Davey’s face kept going under the water, but he would bob up, grinning as if nothing untoward had happened.
“He’s only little,” she said indulgently. “Even in the shallow end he’s out of his depth! But he won’t be beaten.”
Another boy, known apparently as “Boz”, was splashing about heedlessly nearby. Blond and reckless, and even less competent than little Davey, he was nonetheless ducking the other boys’ heads in the water for a laugh.
“He can’t swim, and doesn’t even try,” said his exasperated mother. “Yet he always comes up dry and smiling, if tousled.”
She gave her wayward son the thumbs-up as he pulled little Micky Grovel’s trunks down again. “Little scamp!” she said, proudly.
The instructor, Mike Barnaby, was disappointed with his charges.
“Not one of them has made progress this term,” he moaned. “And the parents are no better, they think they can get away with anything. If this doesn’t stop pretty soon, they will all be banned from the pool.”
At this point, Micky Grovel (his trunks restored to their rightful position) shouted “I think we’ve all had enough of teachers!”
He received a loud cheer from the other boys before Boz waded in to push him under again (more cheers).
Just then Barnaby’s boss, Johnny Junkyard, arrived to take Terry out on another embarrassing date.
The boys all clambered out of the pool reluctantly, all except Boz who remained behind to piss in the water.