Dipping my toe into the synchronised swimming pool Synchro has been part of the women's Summer Olympic Schedule since 1984, with competition judging equally divided between technical ability and artistic interpretation. The Russian team is currently top, with Spain, China and Japan bringing up the rear. Team GB, which only centralised training at Aldershot in 2007, is looking for a top six finish. It is a young squad with an average age of 20. The exhausted swimmers tend to hang up their caps in their early twenties, often with strains or injuries. Still, with a 500 calorie-per-hour burn, it is small wonder that so many amateurs are keen to take up the sport as a total body workout in which the entertainment factor runs high. As Aquabatix director Katie Fried (who started training aged nine and retired at 23) observes: "Core strength is vital to achieve water stability. On top of this, synchro requires endurance and co-ordination and engages every muscle in the body, without putting pressure on the joints. The buoyancy also helps improve flexibility. This means that, in theory, synchro should be ideal for ancient non-exercisers such as myself. In practice, I have not ventured into a pool since the days of that mythical verruca, do not possess a swimsuit and find mortifying the prospect of disporting myself semi-naked with a posse of nubile young water babes. These girls are swanlike in their white suits and have synchro's characteristic elegantly elongated muscles. The swans - Natasha Lau (22), Emily Randall (16), Lizzy Waterfield (22) and Beccy Macenri (24) - are, however, very good at soothing my nerves as they pin back my hair and pastry-brush gelatin on to it. For this is the secret of a glossy, unbudgeable competition hairdo: one makes a jelly on top of one's bonce. Words cannot begin to express the peculiarity of this sensation: a gradually cooling splodge of ever-stiffening ectoplasm. The moment I can, I put on a flowered cap to stop myself from prodding my goo-head. Make-up wise, I am instructed to create a night-out face, only hammier. It is a peculiarly transvestite look for 9am. Some Olympic contenders coat their face in Chapstick before applying their maquillage. However, the girls recommend MAC'S Face Primer and Waterproof Liquid Eyeliner. All apply lashings of waterproof mascara, Rimmel Lasting Finish Lipstick in Alarm (170) and matching finger and toenail lacquer. MAC has created a sophisticated team look for the Olympics, emphasising the eyes rather than opting for the traditional panto face. And so into the water. Happily, the Berkeley pool (whose roof slides open in fine weather) is soapily warm and shallow enough to stand up in. My first task is to attempt various floating methods to assess core stability. Despite my claim to have no core at all, I am surprisingly good at this, but then it is the swimming equivalent of playing dead, and I've never had a problem with non-movement. Next, we swim to music, channelled via an underwater speaker. I am asked to pick from a group of pop singers, none of whom I have heard of. Undeterred, we set off - appropriately enough - to Adele's Rolling in the Deep, the five of us counting out loud in speedy sets of eight. First breaststroke, then a lunatically precise Nazi-salute style crawl, finally backstroke, or "drownstroke," as I now like to think of it. I confess, a degree of walking goes on in my part of the pool, despite the fact that contestants are not allowed to touch the bottom or sides in competitions. A spot of sculling follows: the sinuous hand movement via which the swimmers steer and/or shoot backwards, forwards, or revolve in circles. Rest hands on face to achieve the correct cupping gesture, then fix upper arms against the side of the body, while lower arms move at a 90-degree angle with cupped hands creating a whirlpool effect. This sounds a cinch. It isn't: young swimmers take years to perfect their technique. Even with one of my comrades benevolently supporting me by the bottom, my instinct is to scoop pathetically rather than scull. Still, if one can crack it, it's terribly good for the bingo wings, so perseverance is encouraged. I just about manage a tub turn (sculling with hands thrown back underwater, knees hunched towards the face). If sculling proves tricky, then synchro's equally fundamental move, the eggbeater, has to be attempted to be believed: the underwater equivalent of rubbing one's stomach while patting one's head without succumbing to a watery grave. It is a form of treading water with legs in a frog-like mode, only directly below the body, making flat-footed circular kicks with different legs at different times. Think the proverbial gliding swan, paddling like crazy below the surface. Unfortunately, I was unable to achieve that one. In fact, pretty much the only technique I am fit enough to muster is the inane grinning - and even that is making my jaw ache. Later, as we collapse in our robes, quaffing hot chocolate, the girls tell me that smiling is a crucial part of making the whole "water ballet" thing look exquisitely effortless. The reality is prune-like skin, nose-clip indentations and ladyboy make up. Given the tedium, hard graft, cold (the girls swam with David Walliams in the Thames) and the fact that the show may be over come one's early twenties, what could possibly keep them at it? "I wanted to be a mermaid," sighs Tasha wistfully. And, my, how beautifully she and these other sirens have achieved that goal. The Berkeley Hotel is holding masterclasses with Aquabatix for £125 for 90 minutes, including a cap, nose clip and hot or cold drink; www.the-berkeley.co.uk. Aquabatix can be hired for events; www.aquabatix.com. Olympic synchronised swimming will take place between August 5 and 10