I HAVE never been keen on swimming - hated it in fact. So when, on Saturday morning, my seven-year-old daughter wailed in protest as I prepared to book her in for another term of lessons, I was poised to give in.

She has reached a certain level and the next step is a class concentrating on the front crawl - which she hates - and the butterfly stroke, which, thankfully, she has yet to experience.

"I don't want to do it," she moaned, and memories of my own swimming experiences came flooding back - which probably led to my total loathing of all things smelling of chlorine.

I was taught to swim while at primary school in North Yorkshire. And I use the word 'taught' loosely.

We did not have no local baths, so we all piled on to a coach and were driven to a pool more than 20 miles away. The building was dismal on the outside and worse on the inside.

As for lessons. There was no special section of the pool cordoned off for learners and there was no question of children lining up in an orderly fashion, to be instructed by a couple of friendly teachers who knew what they were doing.

If I remember rightly, we were simply divided into two groups - those who had been to a public baths before and those who hadn't. The ones who

had were labelled 'swimmers' and those who had not 'non swimmers.'

I was unlucky. Although my parents - both non swimmers - had never taken me to the baths, I had been a few times with a friend. I could stay afloat and just about manage a dog paddle. This fact seemed to propel me to Sharron Davies-like status.

The next thing I remember is being asked to jump in at the deep end and tread water. I clearly recall being terrified and desperate to get out and get changed.

I recall some sort of attempt to teach us life-saving skills, where we were all asked to put on a pair of pyjamas and asked to dive into the pool and pull another person to the side.

I pity whoever I had hold of, who must have ended up in a neck brace after being hauled to the side like a cod in a trawler net.

There was also an occasion when we had to retrieve a plastic brick from the bottom.

About half the group - who had only ever immersed their heads on hairwash night - stood on the side in tears. It really was a case of 'sink or swim.'

And the water was freezing. They must have gauged the temperature against a Norwegian fjord. It was so bad that sick notes became the norm. Most weeks, there were more children sitting on the benches feigning colds, flu and water-borne diseases than there were in the pool.

We would even draw verrucas onto our feet with felt tip to get out of the weekly ordeal.

Even the refreshments available in the lobby were dreadful. In contrast to the Arctic waters of the pool, the soup took the skin off the roof of your mouth and left pieces of flesh hanging loose in your mouth.

It is like another world at the pool where my children attend lessons. Its basic, but it's warm and welcoming, with wonderful staff who take pains to make the children feel at ease and not to over-stretch them.

But it still doesn't compel me to take the plunge. I'd need months of therapy before I would stick one toe in.

As for my daughter, thankfully, her teacher stepped in with a confidence-boosting word and she is happy to return after the holiday.

Updated: 08:44 Tuesday, April 06, 2004