The Leith Waterfront swimming pool opened the following April.

It was glass on three sides, looking out over the water, with the blue cranes behind it. On the opening morning, there was a queue of children all the way down the road, holding towels and armbands, jumping up and down.

The pool was free for every child in Leith.

I asked my dad to cut the ribbon.

He didn't want to. He said it should be someone important. A government minister. A famous footballer.

“Dad,” I said. “You worked on these docks for twenty-five years. You stood here in the rain when they closed them down. You are someone important.”

So on a bright April morning, a retired docker in his best jacket cut a red ribbon with a big pair of scissors, and three hundred children ran screaming into the water.

Mum cried the whole time.

Alasdair cried a bit too, though he said it was the chlorine.

Morag from reception brought her grandchildren. Dougie Paterson did a cannonball off the side, at seventy-two, and got a round of applause from the lifeguards.

And I stood by the window, watching the children splash in the water where the old cargo ships used to unload, and thought: This is what ordinary looks like.

It looks like everything.