Crosby Baths
‘No running, no spitting, no heavy petting’ By Peter Harvey
The old Crosby Baths was a symbol of my childhood. Even today, remembering the shrill blast of the poolside attendant’s whistle above the din of screaming kids transports me to happy times in the 1970s and 1980s. The bleach-filled air, the piercing snap of aluminium locker doors, floating corn plasters, scurrying cockroaches, hairballs, the frozen fear of the ‘top’ diving board…fast followed by a shame-filled retreat www.tick-media.co.uk
down the slippery wooden steps to the three-metre spring board where even girls ventured.
Summer or winter, it made no difference. Living nearby (I could see Crosby Baths from my bedroom window) I was drawn to the place like a moth to a light. I would go with friends, family, or often on my own, to swim till my fingertips wrinkled, my eyeballs stung or until I was ordered out for having the wrong coloured wristband. continued...
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