Following this week's discovery that the National Careers Association thinks I'd make a good lifeguard and my assertion that I do not look good in Speedos (see here), I'd maybe consider it if this was the uniform!
Horizontal stripes are a no-no at my current age and wine-induced width, but at age 22 I could get away with dressing up as a bathing beauty for a piece about adult swimming lessons for the Leeds Skyrack Express newspaper.
I hated swimming at school. I mean, why in real life would you ever need to dive into deep water and rescue a brick? In your pyjamas? Especially when without your specs you couldn't see past the bridge of your nose, let alone to the bottom of the veruca-infested municipal pool - a pool which you knew for a fact some of the other boys used as an emergency loo.
But as a game-for-anything cub reporter I braved a series of lessons where in week one I was flailing around like a terrified cat and by week six I could do at least a couple of laps (front crawl only; the breast stroke was far too energetic).
I didn't conquer my fear of drowning or verucas, but I did muster enough confidence to take windsurfing lessons when I found myself living in Weymouth for a couple of years. It was a six-week course with a clause that you could keep going for as many weeks as you needed to, with no extra fees, until you earned the proficiency certificate.