Vorderman does pin-up

Yesterday, Carol Vorderman was declared the woman 'every man in Britain fancies' by the editor of GQ magazine, after sales soared 23 per cent for an edition featuring the scantily-clad television presenter. Here, the 43-year-old, who lives in central London with her children Katie, 12, and Cameron, seven, and partner Des, a journalist, reveals why she's more surprised than anyone by her sudden success as a pin-up.

On a cold November day last year, as temperatures plummeted and most fortysomething mothers remained sensibly wrapped in their scarves and coats, I stood shivering in a photographic studio somewhere in East London.

The jeans, trainers and sweater that I had worn to cycle with my son to school earlier that morning were lying forgotten in the corner - abandoned in favour of a satin, figure-hugging corset and fishnet tights.

As I stood in front of a camera lens, I was shivering from a mixture of cold and nerves. Fear had stuck my tongue to the roof of my mouth, while my normal confident flow of conversation was reduced to hysterical giggles.

The team from GQ, faced with the task of turning me into some sort of sex goddess, eyed me closely. If they felt like running down the corridor screaming, they were too professional to show it.

Meanwhile a make-up girl and stylist half my age did their best to boost my confidence. 'You look great, Carol, it really suits you,' they smiled kindly. I felt like a teenager whose big sisters were looking after me while I experimented with a new fashion I wasn't sure about.

I gritted my teeth, and as I fought an overwhelming urge to run and hide behind the curtains, I wondered what the hell I was doing there in the first place. I'm not exactly a waif-like model who can pose and pout and explode with sex appeal.

The pictures appeared in last month's edition of GQ, and when the editor, Dylan Jones, announced yesterday that sales had gone up 23 per cent, saying 'Every man in Britain fancies Carol', I was utterly stunned.

Far from being a sex goddess, I'm a saggy-bellied mother of two with dimples and wrinkles and a huge backside. So how had I ever been persuaded to pose wearing very little for a glossy men's magazine? And come to think of it, why had they even asked me in the first place?

In fact, it had taken two long years to lure me into the studio that day. I was newly into my 40s when GQ first approached my agent and asked me to pose. As soon as I'd stopped laughing, my reply was a firm and unequivocal 'No'.

The thought of seeing my copresenter Richard Whiteley in the Countdown studio the next day, and explaining what I'd done while he laughed himself senseless, sent a little shiver down my spine.

After all, I have carved a career from using my brain, not my body. I add up the numbers on a daytime quiz show, and have done for 21 years. I am no beauty by any stretch of the imagination. I just try, within reason, to make the most of what I've got.

I don't go to celebrity parties. They're usually very dull, with everyone looking over their shoulder to see who else is around. Instead, I prefer to stay at home with my gorgeous partner and my two children, or go out with my real friends.

I loathe the whole quest for youth - the ever-growing need to look younger, as if turning back the clock was a mission in itself. These obligations are no longer confined to the world of showbusiness - it seems that every woman is under increasing pressure to look fantastic.

Being a good mum and looking like a mum no longer seems to be good enough. In today's unforgiving, ageist society, you have to be a good mum and look like your teenage daughter. Botox, liposuction, tummy tucks and boob jobs mean there's no excuse for looking older. Beauty is there to be bought.

Of course, I eat healthily for my own well-being and I appreciate the fact it means I don't put on weight. But I don't want to be a twenty-something, or even a thirty-something any more, strutting my stuff in short skirts without a thought about wrinkled knees or wobbly bottoms.

So I was astonished when GQ approached me again, a year later, to feature in a sexy photo shoot. I was secretly flattered, but still too scared to risk making a fool of myself. Once again, my answer was no.

Another year passed, and as I took my foot off the career pedal, life became sweeter than ever. I had spent my 20s having fun and working furiously, my 30s juggling motherhood and work. By the age of 40, I decided to concentrate on my children.

The result is that I've had more fun in the past four years than I had in the entire decade of my 30s. I realised that life as a woman 'of a certain age' held many pleasures, much joy and a few surprises. I've noticed that my body has changed as I've got older. The pigmentation on my skin has altered, I have a different figure and far more wrinkles.

But I've learned that it doesn't matter. I'm happy as I am. So it was in my new-found contentment, rather than a new desire to sex up my image, that Dylan Jones asked one more time if I would pose for GQ.

This time, I stopped to consider it. I thought about all the women I know who are taking degrees in their 40s. They have the freedom to study and to do as they please, so why shouldn't I enjoy the freedom to be pictured as I pleased?

As I was contemplating the offer, my 75-year-old mother, Jean, announced cheerfully: 'Do you know what I want on my gravestone? "Life was never dull.'' '

It is her favourite saying, but as soon as she uttered those words, something clicked inside my head. It would be funny to do those pictures. Funny because I'm not perfect. Funny because I'm not beautiful. Funny because I'm not a sex symbol. Funny because, in years to come, when I'm no longer here, my great-great-granddaughter may find the pictures of me buried in an attic, gaze down at the fishnet tights and say: 'Ah yes, that was my great-great-grandmother celebrating her 40s.'

I don't know who was more shocked when I said yes to the photo-shoot - GQ or I. But the wheels moved swiftly into motion, and on the morning of the shoot, I found myself cycling the usual two miles into school with my son, Cameron.

Wind swept past my ears, and by the time I arrived home, just in time to jump in the car, my hair looked like it had been styled by Edward Scissorhands. My driver couldn't find the studio in East London, so I arrived late, flustered, with scary hair and not a scrap of make-up.

A beautiful and immaculate make-up girl aged about 20 took one look at me and swept me into a side room to begin her work. I had looked forward to seeing a whole rail filled with beautiful outfits from which I could select my choice.

Instead, to my horror, there was an empty rail with just a couple of corsets and fishnet tights. For a fleeting second, I wondered when my outfits were going to arrive. Then realisation dawned - these were my outfits.

The stylist and make-up girl were very sweet, and when I tottered out into the studio on my high heels with my corset pulled tightly in, I looked nothing like the wild-eyed woman who had been cycling down mudsplattered lanes earlier.

As I posed for the pictures, I already knew that this was how I wanted to look. I did not want to be airbrushed to death. There seemed no point in hiding my lumps, because I know that they are there - and I don't mind others knowing, either.

Three hours of shooting and I finally relaxed enough to enjoy myself. After five hours, I was having a ball, but sadly it was time to get dressed and race off to a reception at the Science Museum hosted by Tony Blair. I thought it best not to turn up in a corset, so I put on my trouser suit and said nothing about what I'd been doing.

I hadn't even dared tell my closest friends. I knew that if there had been even the slightest of pauses in their reaction, I might have bottled out completely.

Instead, they were greeted in May by the sight of me dressed - or undressed - as never before. Six months after I had posed for those photos, they appeared - and I was stunned by the reaction. I switched on the television and there was Eamonn Holmes, who I know very well, holding a copy of the magazine and saying: 'Well, look at Vorderman!'

Later, he sent me a text message saying 'You look hot - why don't you look like that on the GMTV sofa?' I switched on the radio and another great friend, Terry Wogan, was exclaiming: 'What is that Carol Vorder-person doing now?'

The following day I arrived at the studio to record Countdown. As I walked onto the set, the presenter, Richard Whiteley, announced smoothly: 'Here comes Carol... and she's got her clothes on!'

After the show, I stepped outside to be greeted by groups of students - all holding copies of GQ for me to autograph.

I expected the joking. But what I didn't expect was the wonderful response from other women. Strangers came up to me in the street and said: 'Good on you, girl.' We were all suddenly united in our belief that life certainly does not end at 40.

To put it into perspective, the fuss soon died down, and the comments quickly went back to the usual 'Oh Carol, you're not half as fat as you look on the television' or 'Oh, you look a lot younger in the flesh'.

I'd love to think some undiscovered movie star quality did send sales soaring, but deep down I know it wasn't. I think it must have been sheer curiosity value that persuaded more men to buy the magazine that month. Either that or they were on heavy medication.

My short burst of life as a ladsmag pin-up is probably over. I haven't got a copy of the magazine lying on the coffee table at home, and I certainly don't have myself blown up in full glory and mounted on the wall in my fishnets and corset.

I'm thoroughly glad that I took the challenge and had a laugh. My mother was right when she said 'life is never dull'.

We should learn to enjoy our imperfections. I know that if I jump up and down, my bottom is still moving five minutes later. But that is life - just enjoy the wobbling.