LIFE has a way of bringing us down to earth. If we ever get above ourselves thinking we’re just ahead of the game, up pops an incident to put us back in our place.

It doesn’t matter who you are or how much money you’ve got stashed away under the bed (that seems to be the safest place for it these days), no human is immune from this basic law of nature.

Indeed the more powerful and/or richer you are the harder you seem to hit the buffers – and usually in a very public way.

For instance I always thought I was a reasonable driver – ok I might admit to ‘good’ if you push me. I stepped into this frail thought pattern at the age of 18 when I passed my driving test at the first attempt and took to the roads in a maroon Mini van in 1968. It was the company pool car for our reporting team.

I soon bought myself a Wolseley 1500 for fifty quid – about two months’ wages – and rattled my way round the countryside. However my self-imposed status as a good driver first came unstuck a couple of years later in Wolverhampton.

Late for a rock concert, I darted into a parking place in the street, was about to get out when there was a sharp tap on the window. I wound it down to be confronted by a police officer.

“Would you mind stepping out of the car sir.”

Isn’t it funny how you always feel immediately guilty when talking to a policeman and try to hide it by (you think) smiling at him, but are actually grimacing in a manic way.

“Notice anything about all the other cars in the street.”

I knew it was a trick question, but answered in the negative.

“Well they’re all facing a different way to you. Would you follow me sir.”

I trailed behind him to the end of the street I’d just entered and he pointed at a sign.

“Do you know what that means sir?”

I mumbled something about no entry, but fortunately received nothing more than a lecture to be heaped upon my humiliation. I’ve had a few motoring comeuppances since to help keep me in my place.

Anyway I had another sobering encounter with the buffers last week. I finally decided to take up the Chiltern District Council’s generous offer of free swimming for the over 60s. After filling in the form at Amersham pool and waving my driving licence, senior railcard and bus pass to prove my age, I had another card to add to the growing collection.

Now I’ve always been a sporty individual. Started rock climbing at 11, raced bicycles with a fair degree of success and played in county squash leagues so I’ve always regarded myself as a lot fitter than the average person of my age. The lanes at Amersham pool during the old fogies’ hours are split into fast, medium and slow so I opted for the middle course just to start things off gently before winding myself up to full speed.

After a couple of lengths of the breaststroke I was clearly getting in the way of other swimmers. It was embarrassing really, especially when I was overtaken by a lady – with a perfect and dry hairdo – who was obviously older than me.

Somewhat chagrined I shifted down a gear and crossed into the slow lane. I mean, how do people swim that quickly? The ones in the fast lane were ploughing up and down like there was no tomorrow, doing about four lengths to my one.

I tried the front crawl in an effort to speed up, but nearly drowned at the end of the first length because I was so out of breath. I started furtively watching other people doing the breaststroke to see if my technique was right. Then caught a guard watching me and had visions of me being banned for voyeurism.

After 40 minutes of watery humiliation I retired to a coffee shop with my morning paper. Now in that arena I am truly the king.