THERE'S something about the Olympics that makes you feel nationalistic -- and fit, writes Angela Kelly.

As you watch the rippling muscles and taut bodies on TV you somehow slouch higher in your comfortable chair, putting yourself in the position of these Olympians.

In our house, we're as fascinated as the rest of the world.

Of course, we could easily have been similar, finely honed athletes -- if it hadn't been for Fate. That and a distinct liking for Cadbury's wholenut chocolate, Boddington's best and plenty of after-work sloth.

We certainly act like experts, though. We nod knowledgeably when the commentator talks about a foot movement being worth two-tenths of a mark on the vault dismount. "Bad fault, that, you'd think they'd work on it.)

We naturally understand the aero-dynamics of the swimmers' power suits, and the dedication involved in creating bodies that look like rippling, inverted triangles.

And we definitely join in the tears when these sportsmen and women watch their national flag hoisted, clutching their gold medals to chests swelled with pride.

(I cried at the opening ceremony when somewhere with a name like Krygjhanistan only had four people in their Olympic team. I worried about how they'd fare in the volleyball or hockey? Even the coxless pairs looked dodgy.)

My husband, however, doesn't seem to have got into the proper spirit of all this. While I burble on about athleticisim and grace, he thinks the synchronised swimming was put there for between-sports entertainment -- like the dancing bit in the middle of the Eurovision Song Contest.

He takes the beach volleyball slightly more seriously, because it's on land and there's more curvy body to view.

And he's been practising hard for the rowing events -- "It's my turn with the remote control." "No, it's not!" "Yes, it is -- and I want the boxing on."

I suppose there's no real reason why we couldn't adopt a few Olympic disciplines in normal domestic lives.

There's the 100 metres supermarket dash (to get all the shopping before the swimming final's on the telly).

Or, mixed gardening (when you both tackle the weeds; extra points for not falling out/attacking each other with the hoe/killing the roses).

We'd certainly be good at the team events -- like the teatime medley relay ("here, get this plate of bread/turn off that grill/give the stir-fray a shake").

And I'm proud to relate that, when it comes to medal standards, no-one's better than me at meddling . . .