Jo Davison, Speaking up for today's woman

Wherever we are going, he is invariably ten paces closer to our destination than I am.

It limits conversation; my words get lost in a gulf stream jet of a wind trailing in his wake. Maybe that's his aim; by gaining the lead, he also gains peace and quiet.

But in truth, I don't think it's deliberate. Nor do I believe there's anything Freudian about it, either; it's not about him needing to be in the lead because he's male.

It's a physical thing; he just cannot walk at the same speed as me, nor I him.

'To stay at his pace would leave me red in the face'

Many's the time I've tried to catch up with him. I go down a gear, force my legs into a momentum they definitely don't like, and get there; by his side. But it's always short-lived. Invariably, without even knowing he's doing it, he accelerates again and leaves me straggling.

I don't think I walk slowly; no one else has ever chivvied me to keep up. But to stay at his pace would leave me red in the face and out of breath; every trip to Meadowhall would become an aerobic workout.

Our difference in pace means we rarely manage to walk the dog together.

Bloke and dog are disappearing to dots in the distance while I'm still in the porch. The two of them were made for each other; both can speed-walk for England and are starting to look the same too, in the way that dogs and owners so often do. Especially from behind. Tidy little backsides, long legs, floppy hair flying backwards ... I'll stop there.

It was even more noticeable when we went on holiday last week. At the airport he seemed to be champing at some invisible bit. If passport control had been a gate, he'd have hurdled it in one lanky stride, I tell you. While I was still putting my shoes back on and being lightly massaged by a security woman at baggage check, he was ordering macchiatos in the departure lounge.

When it was time to board, he sprinted down the ramp to the plane like a greyhound out of a trap.

I got to the plane steps ten minutes later to find him standing there, trying to mask his impatience behind a huge smile. I could see the muscles straining around the edges.

I have tried to solve the problem; on numerous occasions I've begged him to slow to my pace. And although he has tried really hard to do so, it has proved impossible. Maybe he was a Red Indian scout, or an Olympic racewalker, in another life.

So now he's decided that it is I who has to speed up.

"I've changed lots of things for you. I can't change the way I walk so you'll have to do it," he shouted over one shoulder from 300 yards.

As I see it, if we are ever to walk through life side by side, or for that matter down the aisle together next August, I have three options.

I must either eschew high heels (you can pick up many things in stilettos, but speed isn't one of them). Or I can join a gym and get fitter (which would also make me look better in my wedding dress as we sprint out of church to the lych gate).

Only I can’t walk in flat shoes – they make me feel like I’m in one of those dreams where you’re trying to run away from someone but your legs are in slow-motion. And I’m too busy to go to the gym. Rubbish excuse, but end of.

The third option is that I encourage him to go and play squash more often. It’ll wear him out … and I’ve heard it’s brutal on the knee joints.