WELL, I've watched it and I'm not impressed. Being one myself, I had to take a look, but I didn't recognise either me or any of my friends.

I mean, come on, who do I know who is having sex with the gardener (who do I know with a gardener?), or who makes undisguised attempts to seduce the neighbours (mine would almost certainly bolt the doors if I pranced about on the pavement in my nightie).

Neither do any of my friends spend thousands on looking fantastic (I can barely afford my six-monthly hair cut at the local 'Unflattering But Dirt Cheap' salon).

I don't know one person who fits the profile, yet we are what the TV series professes to be about. We are Desperate Housewives, only the Yorkshire variety.

Here in northern England, desperation obviously manifests itself in different ways to those in the fictitious American suburb where the show is based. In Yorkshire, Desperate Housewives are everywhere, yet they don't look a bit like the glamour girls of Wisteria Lane.

If you don't know how to spot them, here's what to look for:

u Haggard-looking females arriving in the vicinity of primary schools around 9am and 3pm, cursing to themselves as they drive up and down, maniacally looking for a parking space as close to the gates as possible, then, ten minutes later, swearing again as they try to reverse out with a crowd of bickering children in the back.

u Harassed-looking women tearing around the supermarket with half-full trolleys trying desperately to remember whether they're out of Sugar Puffs or Golden Grahams, and trying to recall how recently they bought milk and toilet roll before heading off to the alcohol section to buy 28 bottles of cheap Chardonnay.

u Washing left outside on the line for days. A sure sign of a desperate housewife. Someone who is so up to her eyes in other stuff that she doesn't have time for basic domestic things such as laundry, Hoovering and cleaning.

u Pairs of 30 and 40-something women having tete-a-tetes over morning coffee in town centre cafes. With the children at school and time on their hands, they will be discussing the likes of Colin Firth and Hugh Grant and how their husbands don't match up.

u Middle-aged women delicately fingering the Agent Provocateur collection in Marks & Spencer's underwear department before reluctantly moving on and buying a pair of Bridget Jones-style Magic Knickers and a heavy-duty sports bra.

u Groups of mothers hanging around wind-blown playgrounds with their hands in their pockets, waiting for young children to fall off climbing frames. Take it from me, they will be desperately wishing they were on a sun-kissed beach somewhere.

u Forty-something women at the gym who glance longingly at hunky personal trainers and despise the size six blonde goddesses they seem to prefer to spend time with.

Far from being beautifully toned and coiffeured, obsessed with good-looking men and out to bed them, Yorkshire's Desperate Housewives are physically past their best, are obsessed with good looking men and know they have no chance of bedding them.

They are desperately wondering what happened to their lives. I know I am, so are my friends. Desperate, desperate, desperate. That's us. So much so, we've decided to club together and hire a gardener. Only gorgeous young men who look good in jeans and no top will be considered.

Updated: 09:22 Tuesday, January 25, 2005