There was a swimming pool in the middle of Victoria Barracks in Hong Kong, in 1975. Mum would take me there, and sometimes my brothers too, if they were around. As far as I was concerned we were just there to swim, but looking back I imagine that we were there to wait for dad to finish work and revert to civilian life for the evening.

The pool was surrounded by trees and the low, tiled and somewhat neglected changing rooms, men on one side, women on the other. It was always pretty empty of people. Stepping into still water remains one of my great pleasures in life, better still if a blue sky is reflected therein. But this is not the pool of which I dream.

If you listened over the sound of my splashing you would have heard, and maybe seen through the trees, the Gurkhas marching on their separate and unequal parade ground. On our side of the divide, the officer's side, mum and dad sipped iced gin and tonics, merrily oblivious to everything. Colonial pleasures make me queasy, it's like getting an unexpected nose full of chlorinated water.

Sunny or overcast, or even in the rain, I always wanted to be the first in the pool. It was in this pool that I learned to swim without fear after pestering anyone who would listen to let me swim through their legs, or play swimming underwater with eyes open. It was on the light blue mosaic at the edges of the deep end that I learned to dive elegantly. 30 years and 15 stones later I can still do these things. It was a treat to ride around on Dad's back as though he were a manta ray until he got tired and tetchy. I remember watching mum swim up and down executing a stiff breast stroke, boasting that she hadn't got the top of her head wet. She'd climb out and into her robe, reaching for a cigarette and another G and T.