It was four years ago the last time I had sex in a swimming pool. Yes, it was a private pool but the house had no fence and so any keen observer driving on the road - with great eyesight - could have seen what was going on.

And let me tell you, sex in a swimming pool is not at all grand. You have to keep moving because the water gets cold; you can’t feel anything because the water is so frigid; and let’s not forget the potential to acquire sunburn in sensitive places.

Chlorine = mood killer.

But, see, I now know I’m old because I was with my daughters at the neighbourhood pool this afternoon, and we were having a lovely game of water H-O-R-S-E, until this young couple arrived. He had hair like a 1980s Michael Jackson, and she had huge boobs and was about two kilograms from being imprisoned by the Fashion Police for wearing a bikini with a body that - how can I say this tactfully? - … had too much flesh and too little covering it up.

From behind the protection of my sunglasses, I was about to make a brilliant R move, and then furtively shot Michael and Boobs a glance, and then did a double-take because I realised they were HAVING SEX in the pool in the same water that CHILDREN WERE SWIMMING and I didn’t know whether to interrupt them and suggest they wait until we were gone, or just berate them for being stupid idiots.

I hoped they would understand why I pulled my sunnies off and shot dirty looks their way, but he was too engrossed in blowing water bubbles into her boobs and kept going.

And so we left.