Because I write about cats people always assume I'm a cat person.

'But you're a cat person not a dog person', someone said only the other day, mainly because I was trying to tactfully persuade her spaniel to stop depositing any more saliva on my shoes.

We could have got into a bit of an argument really, and not just because of spaniel spit, because she doesn't have cats.

She thinks they are aloof, self interested and have no character. I, on the other hand, could have pointed out that no cat I've ever owned has ever taken to dropping dollops of glob on people's insteps nor have I ever known a cat which insists on trying to mate with your ankles every time you meet it.

I like dogs. I used to have a beautiful Golden Retriever bitch who was all a dog should be - sweet, loyal, friendly and full of character. I don't have a dog now because I'm not at home during the day to look after it, but I'd certainly like to have another one eventually.

Having had both cats and a dog I know that both have characters which are very different. Tread on a dog's tail and he will yelp and think he's done something wrong and try to make it up to you. Tread on a cat's tail and he will leap onto the china cabinet and glare balefully at you for an hour (and knock a couple of things off for good measure).

Fail to feed a dog and he will mope round the house and at most eat the bird's food. Cats will already have marked out several places in the neighbourhood where they can get a good hot meal so they won't care. Dogs will usually eat anything and are quite happy having the same brand of dog food day in day out. Cats have a built in warning system so they know when they have had one and a half tins of rabbit and grouse in jelly and won't touch it again for six weeks.

Dogs are totally reliant on humans for company, food, warmth, shelter and, most important, love. Cats consider humans are a necessary evil and make quite sure you know they can find all five of these necessities elsewhere if they choose. No cat will ever come to you when you call unless it wants to, most dogs are unable to ignore their master or mistress's call because they want to please them.

That's really the difference. Dogs like to please, cats couldn't give a mouse's whisker if you are pleased or not.

They eat your food, sleep on your best cushion covers, walk when and where they like and come in and go out at the most inconvenient times. In return you might get a purr, a little rub around the legs (especially if said cat is soaking wet) and the ultimate accolade of allowing you to support them on your lap. Dogs are, I have to say, easy to own. For cats you need qualifications.

Watching the Olympics you can't help being amazed at how technology has changed sport .

Take those bicycles. Lightweight, wheels like old fashioned LP records, and tiny little handlebars. Ridden by people who appear to be wearing something straight out of Star Trek on their heads and a garment which is only decent on someone who has no bumps anyplace. So that's me out for a start.

The swimming outfits are even more incredible. Someone said in the office this week that they have scales on them to imitate a fish and each outfit takes about 15 minutes to put on because they are so tight and presumably just as long to get off.

One can only hope that they heed my grandmother's constant question just before we went on any journey. 'Have you been?'

No wonder world records tumble if everyone goes into the water dressed as a herring.

I wonder just how fast they would be at swimming if they had on one of those cumbersome black woolly costumes we wore. The sort that once immersed in water became ten times heavier and sagged in all the wrong places. And if you were really unlucky you wore a costume your mother had knitted for you.

Let me tell you, you really would be a champion if you could go the length of the baths clad in 32 ounces of four ply pure new wool.

It may come as a considerable shock to friends and colleagues that I was once something of an athlete.

In those days our scientifically designed sports outfits consisted of black plimsolls, white Aertex shirts and blue school knickers. Try to send nubile teenager girls out onto a sports field in blue knickers these days and you would no doubt have the social services round. But we had no choice.

The equipment was no better. Our sports master managed to get hold of several pairs of spiked shoes in assorted sizes and if you were very lucky the pair you got was somewhere near your size.

My particular forte was hurdling, but the school only had five hurdles and most of those had to be repaired daily.

They were large wooden things which had probably started life as sheep pens and if you hit them they stayed in place and you fell flat on your face or got a nasty bruise. I trained for weeks on these hurdles and it came as a considerable surprise when I went in for competitions to find that we were expected to jump more than five of them in one race.

The last year at school saw the end of my hurdling days, not from any lack of enthusiasm on my part but because the five hurdles had been thrown away by the caretaker during the summer holidays.

I don't suppose there are many budding champions whose careers have been curtailed because their essential training aids got woodworm.