HOW come old ladies are so good at swimming?

Get stuck behind them in Piccadilly, York, and it takes you a fortnight to get to Marks & Spencer.

Get behind them in the pool and they are off like the Gran from Atlantis.

After weeks of wittering, I finally plucked up the courage to share my cellulite with the world (or, at least, the poor unfortunate folk who frequent Yearsley pool), only to be shown up by a bunch of geriatric mermaids.

I had been muttering about going swimming ever since getting the holiday snaps back ("I don't remember seeing a whale washed up on the beach, do you?", "Blimey! Is that an eclipse?") but it took a while to convince myself that revealing my rolling acres in public was not, in fact, a fate worse than death.

My other half did his best to reassure me. "No one will be looking at you," he said from behind his newspaper. "And anyway, the changing rooms are right next to the pool, so you can just stick your knickers in a bag and dive in."

Yeah, thanks. With those words of encouragement ringing in my ears like a death knell, I packed up my troubles in my old Adidas bag and smiled, smiled, smiled. Until I realised my York card had disappeared, leaving me with just enough money to pay for a swim, but nothing to secure a locker.

I wandered about in my swimming costume for a bit hoping for divine intervention. When she came, my saviour was wearing an anorak and carrying a shopping bag, but she was willing to part with 20p so, to me, she looked divine.

It goes without saying that the locker ate my 20p and refused to cough up a key, forcing me to waddle over to the ridiculously attractive young pool attendant for help. Armed with an enormous screwdriver, which he probably carries to fend off amorous female swimmers of a certain age (35, in case you were wondering), he accompanied me back to the offending locker.

The 20p had, of course, now miraculously reappeared in my bra - the grey, tatty one, not the good one - which itself was tucked seductively in my boot. I was so embarrassed even my cellulite blushed.

Finally, after ten minutes of faffing about by the side of the pool, drawing unwanted attention to myself and my regions of outstanding natural wobbliness, I actually made contact with the water.

Then the synchronised seniors started. Their obvious skill and confidence made me feel like a five-year-old, complete with Donald Duck armbands, who has mistakenly been entered into the Olympic freestyle final. Maybe poodle perms have hitherto unknown aerodynamic properties.

Maybe there is a chemical in Werther's Originals that gives grannies webbed feet. Whatever the reason, every single wrinkly in that pool left me standing.

But am I downhearted? No chance. I'll be back this week, puffing and panting away in the outside lane while grey heads rocket past me at the speed of sound.

One day, I'll be hurtling alongside them. One day, I won't be left languishing in their wake. One day, when I've got my own bus pass.

ACTORS are demanding an end to "stealth advertising" in big shows like Desperate Housewives and The Apprentice which show characters and contestants overtly favouring a particular brand on screen.

They claim it blurs the line between promotion and entertainment, fooling audiences and forcing performers to act as advertisers for goods they don't necessarily endorse.

They should, perhaps, take a lead from newspapers where no such blurring ever occurs. As I said to my fashionable friend Dotty (Ms Perkins to you) just the other day as we enjoyed a refreshing slice of Mango while waiting for our chums Helen and Michelle (you probably know them as H&M), journalists would never stoop so low.

Updated: 11:03 Monday, November 21, 2005