No ifs and definitely no butts

It was an odd accusation, and it cost a great deal of money. When the management at a smart country-house hotel wrongly accused a member of its health club of parading around the reception area in a thong, he was livid. "They made it sound as if I was a lap dancer," said Neville Green. "Just by looking at the size of me, anyone could see I couldn't wear anything like that."

Mr Green is clearly a sensible, respectable man who would never dream of wearing such ridiculous underwear. The hotel admitted as much, and has paid him £1,840 for its mistake banning him from the club for two weeks.

I am not quite so sensible or respectable, for, after a lifetime of Bermudas and boxers, I have just been out and about in a thong to see how acceptable they are.

The first task was finding somewhere that would sell me one. Not as easy as you might think. Discreet enquiries at local high-street stores ("Deborah, there's a fella here wants a G-string") drew a blank, and even Harvey Nicks failed to provide pouches. In the end, I had to settle on a black number - a cotton rayon-elastic mix, £12.95, since you ask - by Hom and hope no one noticed it wasn't strictly for the pool.

As it was, I needn't have worried. Camden Oasis in Holborn seemed the perfect place to parade: two swimming pools, a sundeck and dozens of beautiful men and women working out their bodies and checking out anyone doing the same. I'd been warned by a (female) friend that thongs take a little getting used to. She was right. They are quite disconcerting. There's something going on round the back that probably doesn't bear too much close attention.

I took a deep breath, which seemed to help, and walked out to the pool. Unfortunately, I didn't make it to the water. As distracted swimmers swerved in their lanes, an attendant moved quickly to head me off. No swimming in thongs, I was told. Poolside was out of bounds - "there are children here". He was right, there were. They were the ones pointing and giggling. I made a final plea, but was again refused. Even if there were others in the pool who'd slipped in unnoticed, it didn't mean I could. I was banished to the sundeck.

At least here I got a wolf whistle, the first encouragement, admittedly from an office window 100 yards away. But it was a start. I also received a few appreciative comments back in the changing rooms. "You're brave," said one chiselled chap with tight Speedos and pierced nipples.

Clearly, my physique needed some working on. I was going to have to go back to the gym.

The Berkeley Hotel Spa was the place, a luxurious health club, open to hotel guests as well as an exclusive membership. It also has probably London's finest swimming pool, with a view over the rooftops of Knightsbridge, marble columns, blue mosaic edging and a roof that retracts on sunny days. The welcome was warm. The changing rooms have slippers, towels, complimentary bottles of mineral water and pitchers of freshly squeezed orange juice, and for thongwearers there are lovely towel robes allowing you to sneak up to the pool without being accosted.

Perhaps it was the smiles I'd been greeted with, but - foolishly - I asked permission before unveiling the thong. I didn't want anyone to die of fright at the sight of me, or worse, try to get away by jumping to their death in the traffic below.

The staff were charming and helpful, but also quite adamant that the thong was "not appropriate", a judgment it was becoming increasingly difficult to disagree with. Without any fuss, they provided a pair of swimming shorts, which is how, finally, I managed to get to the pool.

It turns out that wearing a thong is easy; it's finding somewhere that will let you wear it that's difficult.

Camden Oasis (020 7831 1804); Berkeley Hotel & Spa (020 7235 6000).