I love a bit of celebrity gossip … especially when, like (insert name, can’t remember who this was about now) it’s about someone I can’t stand.

Better still if the revelation is completely at odds with their public persona – think Frank Bough, the middle-aged, cardigan-wearing breakfast TV presenter caught out with cocaine and call girls.

Like most people, I already had a vague idea about the facts of life well before we were taught about it at school.

It was something to do with putting on the wedding ring, right? That being the only difference I could work out between pre and post marriage for women who had babies.

I’m allergic to sums. And the words ‘finance’ and ‘savings’. I know we’ll all soon be living in a hovel eating gruel, but I would simply prefer not to hear about it and to sit with my fingers in my ears, sucking my thumb, rocking back and forth and humming “la la la la la” until it all goes away.

There’s something about numbers I find so utterly baffling that if someone tries to talk money to me my brain switches to standby, then wanders off to have a large drink and a bit of a daydream.

Have you noticed that everyone calls each other “Darling” these days? It started with a colleague decades younger than me who developed it as an irritating verbal tick overnight. I tried to talk her out of it (“Call me that once more and I’ll punch you,”) but it was fixed forever in her vocabulary, and is now her form of address for everyone, from Prime Ministers to postmen.

I’ve noticed it’s used by people in a variety of ways – but rarely as a form of affectionate endearment.

OK, so, nine-tenths of the population is wiped out by a virus and you have to scavenge to survive. What would you stock up on, apart from food? Here’s my list:

1. Enough hair dye to keep me going for eternity. No one, and I mean no one, is ever going to know that there’s a grey-haired granny lurking just an inch away from regrowth. One has to have some standards.

I used to be married to a man with only one testicle, and I never even noticed, until he pointed it out. The discovery this week that Hitler did indeed, have only one ball, reminded me not only of my first husband’s deficiency in that department, but my laughable lack of the normal observational skills.

Missing a ball is bad enough, but the list of things I don’t notice every day is becoming, frankly, embarrassing.