Good sport

I have never been a natural at sports. That one sentence would likely win me an understatement trophy. I am impressively rubbish at anything involving hand-eye co-ordination, stamina or speed. Actually, that's not quite true. I can speed-read with the best of them. But anything that involves moving quickly is beyond me.

So you can imagine, Physical Education lessons at my traditional, sporty all-girls' school were not my favourites. I hated almost every single sport uniformly. In the winter, hockey and netball were a special type of torture, as we trooped out in our tiny little gym skirts and matching grey knickers, whilst the evil PE teachers huddled in fleecy tracksuits and a coat, and blew whistles at our sporting transgressions. If it rained, we played hockey. If it was windy, we played hockey. If it was rainy and windy and looked like it might snow a bit later on... we played netball. I
maintain there is no greater physical pain than stubbing frozen fingers on a powerfully-thrown netball.

When it came to picking teams, I was always chosen last, some point after the girl with both legs in a cast, and the one with chronic asthma.

Athletics was just as bad. Yes, sometimes the weather was nicer, but the activities were entirely pointless.

1500 meters - running in circles. If you did that without 'sport' as a notion behind it, you'd be institutionalised
Long jump - jumping into a pit of sand and getting your trainers all gritty. No. If you're going to do it, wear flip flops
High jump - psychologically I found this one difficult. I'd run up to the bar but (after seeing my friend Helen's head crack open on said bar the previous lesson), instead of flinging myself backwards over the bar, I tended to refuse it at the last moment like a naughty pony
Shot put / discus - throwing something I could barely lift. No. Just no.
Javelin - would have been OK if they'd allowed us to aim it at the PE teacher
Hurdles - jumping over a series of small fences? Yes, there's a skill I'll need in later life.

Tennis in the summer was OK - if only because you could use the excuse of "accidentally" hitting the tennis ball over the wall to take a long walk round the campus to the park on the other side of the school, thus experiencing freedom for about five minutes. The downside was you were still wearing your gym knickers, so actually it was a prime opportunity for humiliation. The local paedophiles also seemed to think all their Christmases had come at once.

In 1993 the entire class - apparently as a joke - voted me Games Captain for a term. I haven't forgiven them yet and one day I will wreak my horrible revenge.

In 1995, a shivering, freezing cold Laura was delighted that her team had one too many netball players in a games lesson, and valiantly volunteered to sit this match out. Which she did. I spotted some of the sporty girls talking to the evil PE teacher, Mrs Bengleton, who then approached me. She had a look of genuine concern in her eyes.

"Laura," she said. "I've just been told something and... I can't believe it's true." She looked at me with the pleading eyes of a child who's just been told there's no Father Christmas.

"Go on," I said.

"I've just been told... you don't like," she paused for effect, "netball. It's not true, is it?"

I reassured her. "Not true at all," I said.

"Thank goodness," she replied, a childish grin lighting her evil little PE face.

"I don't dislike it. I absolutely hate it."

Which may explain why - three years later - when she caught me skiving badminton (skiving in the library of course - where else would I go?), she didn't readily accept my explanation that I'd 'forgotten' we had Games...

So you'll be as suprised as I was to learn I'd passed the fitness test for the Metropolitan Police last week. Even if I still didn't quite have my breath back three hours later. Next question: will they give me a horse?