I turned up to find six retired women dressed in various shades of pastel exercise/sleepwear. Without stating their age there was no doubt this lot  had travelled to the gym using their free bus passes, knowwadi mean?

So we lined up and the music started and it was Cliff Richard’s Living Doll. As I marched on the spot I was smiling inside at how I’d somehow got tangled up with the old folk. Then it ramped up and went from Cliff Richard to James Brown to Bobby Brown to semi consciousness for me in less than ten minutes.

Those old women were cheerfully channelling their inner Olga Korbuts, and making a very good job of it, too. A few of them got their legs into places  that were more Kama Sutra than Council Sports Centre .  The Ladies chatted all through the hour, no heavy breathing even. Me?  I was panting and looking around hoping to see an oxygen tank at the ready for emergencies..

Purple and fighting for breath  I even tore the gusset of my stretch pants trying to keep up. When the class was all over after 58.6 minutes (there was a clock on the wall that I was convinced was broken because it was moving so slowly) the ladies recommended I try Coffee and Cardio next week.

My emotions in the theatre moved  lot faster than the car did on the way home through the snow, but I was ready to queue because I was in smug ownership of the three essential B’s for getting stranded on the road ; a bucket, a blanket and bananas.

Back to the theatre - when the curtain came down I staggered weeping out of the auditorium looking like Alice Cooper’s twin and  walked straight into my long-time secret  TV crush - Alistair Littleton from ‘Escape to the Country’. Because the play had left me such an emotional wreck  I actually reached out to him with both arms. I’m not sure but I think I wanted a hug or a bit of a neck nuzzle. I had tissues in both hands and an ugly crying face.

Alistair looked disturbed and swerved me while my husband looked on with an oh so familiar ‘What the bloody hell is she doing now?’ expression on his face.

I had a snowy five mile three hour drive home to re-live my embarrassing moment and eat freezing cold bananas.

As a vegetarian chicken-slut I prefer to buy them ready cooked for my carnivore family. Last night in Costco I was at the head of a queue of sixteen people for the last sixteen chickens of the day that were still roasting. I waited 20 minutes for my tender, tasty, (so I’m told)  bird.

When they were cooked the staff member boxed them and started sliding the chickens along the counter. I assumed the etiquette would be one chicken per queuer – all very British and with no opportunity for fowl play.

An elderly Chinese lady appeared from nowhere and shouted something that sounded like “HeeeeHaaaaa!” She bowled through us to the front of the line, seized three boxes and dashed off.

When our collective amazement wore off (2 seconds later) as one the entire sixteen strong queue surged forward to do battle for the remaining thirteen chickens.

Vegetarians eat a lot of legumes, we are strong, and I am pleased but not surprised to announce that I managed to secure a hot chicken.

When I met up with my husband at the tills – he was easy to recognise because he was the one in the Ugg Boot hat and shorts – I told him what I had been through to acquire my £2.99 chicken. He immediately seized it from the trolley, held it high and shouted, “Anyone want a hot bird for a fiver?”

There were no takers. Should I be offended?

I fast forward through all the cooking and crying and crises to the tasting bit when Greg Wallace (he’s got a head that looks like it’s been peeled) and John Torrode put a food loaded fork into their exceptionally large gobs and, without any inhibitions, make the sort of noises men usually only make with their trousers down.

My bank has responded to my request for a PIN number three times in a row.  I’ve followed their instructions in the envelope with precision.  I get my implements ready to scratch and expose the number -  a rubber, a coin, a flat surface.

After I failed to crack the PIN code the first two times I created laboratory conditions in my kitchen to be certain to reveal the number on my third try. No dust, no dog, no radio no cooking vapours or steam. But after I scratched the little panel I still could not read the bleedin’ soddin’ number.

I know it’s against every principle of PIN numbering but in desperation I took the letter to my neighbour to see if she could read it. I asked the postman who delievered the damn letter if he could decipher the number and when they both admitted defeat I even drove to my sister who has recently had laser eye surgery to test whether  her new improved £5,000 eyes could crack the code, but she couldn’t. I called the bank and number four is on it’s way to test my sanity.

I need a psychic not a rubber and a coin before I can enjoy a hole in the wall visit again.

Satisfied but not at all smiley she used her thumb to direct me to a bench by the tills. There were two other people sat on it already. When I joined them the man nearest said ” Coppers coming for you an’all?” “No! I forgot my purse” I informed him. Thinking back I said it in a very Sunday School voice. The woman sat on the far end was using her stomach to keep her knees warm , cackled “Good one, that. You want me to keep him busy  so you can run out? I do a real good faint.”

‘Him’ was a seven foot tall   bald guard who looked like he’d varnished the top of his pointy head,  and was obviously on naughty bench duty. Just his stare made me want to confess to something I hadn’t done.

I declined her kind offer and then she asked could I maybe faint for her instead?

By the time my husband arrived the three people on the bench didn’t even notice me leaving. They were busy bragging about the largest stuff they had ever got away with nicking. A rose bush, 2 tins of Celebrations and a catering size pizza were apparently among their recent hauls.

The security guard frowned at me as I walked by and I felt compelled to confess that I’d nicked a rubber from Woolworths in 1968, but swore I’d gone straight since then.

It’s a genius invention – a world famous celebrity places her foot onto the outline of a footprint on the red carpet which is actually a camera…………… and delivers a 360 degree look at her shoes.

I am so excited I have just channelled Belinda Carlisle and sang ‘Heaven is a Place on Earth’ to myself and my pom pom slippers.

He is frequently lost for words – on Countdown! – and his pet get out of trouble phrases are  “Gooooooood” and “Very gooooooooood.”  His embarrassment is bad for my rosacea, I am suffering along with him every afternoon.

But Nick has a sneery demeanour that stops me feeling too sorry for him. It’s killing the charm of the dinky afternoon show stone dead.  Countdown contestants are playing the game  for a teapot prize and are entitled to a lot of neck nuzzling and  tummy raspberries from the host. And they ain’t getting any Nick love.

In his first couple of days, round by round throughout the game, he was barking “Step back from the clock!” at the sweet and pretty  Rachel. She’s the bargain sum-head who took over from Carol Vorderman and I reckon she has cried a lot in the fortnight since Nick started work on the programme.

His worst offence is that when a round is over and the contestants declare how many letters are in their words  Nick repeats it with disdain.  Think Lady Bracknell with balls -   he does an exceptionally cutting “FIVE?”

How Nasty Nick landed the job as Countdown compere is a conudrum, and I will be expecting a teapot for my two “FIVE?” letter words, “You’re fired!”

My gift? An airing cupboard blitz: the girls  hoovered it out, then ironed all the sheets, duvets and pillowcases before putting them back in size order. Bath towels got refolded and rearranged - darkest colours at the bottom, lightest on top. Hand and face towels were stacked in a jaunty separate pile close by.

I feel like a new woman. It’s as though they’ve tidied my brain. It has made me ridiculously happy.

So I share with you all my airing cupboard good tidyings,  and I hope everything jingles beautifully for you this Christmas. And may 2012 bring you the best of all things.

X

It was a ’phone-in programme, Iain Dale’s on LBC,   and the topic was favourite books of 2011 – and someone rang in to talk about mine!  It was a nice lady from Chiswick who said ‘Me and Mine’ was her book of the year and even a contender for the best book she’d ever read.

Can time sparkle? I say yes. At least it did for me tonight.