My column. Online at last!
This is what happens when I write a column in a really, really bad mood.
This week, 13-year-old Stacia Briggs takes over the reins in an *EXCLUSIVE excerpt from The Dairy Diary 1984. *I say 'exclusive' - I mean 'horrendous'.
The rise of the shouty reporter, why vegetarians shouldn't miss bacon and beating Sir Ian McKellen at being mistaken as a tramp.
When I was at school, the distribution of erotic literature (by which I mean garish pictures of unclothed ladies rather than the work of Anais Nin) was by means of an al fresco library, created by persons unknown.
To mark the 50th anniversary of Coronation Street, a whole range of Street-related products are being launched, including Newton and Ridley Ale, Betty's Hot Pot and a Wii game featuring all our favourite characters.
A farmer is calling for a boycott of the latest craze for releasing Chinese lanterns into the sky after one of his pedigree cattle died from eating the wire frame.
The flags are at half-mast, the hummous lies ignored in its pot and everyone's stopped moaning about those bloody wheelie bins - it can only mean one thing: Tesco's Unthank Road store is set to open in the summer.
I had that David Cameron at the end of my desk, once.
There I was, dutifully banging away at my keyboard with another red-hot news exclusive for the good citizens of Norwich ('Lipstick v Lipgloss: The Truth') last autumn when suddenly I realised I had company.
According to new research, British children's packed lunches aren't meeting the nutritional standards that have been set for their classmates who eat school dinners.
This plan to switch off street lights after midnight is a bit short-sighted, isn't it? (Or will that be us as we stumble back from the pub in pitch darkness trying to avoid muggers?)
Having spent the past few weeks staring intently at the pavement in order not to measure my length in the ice, I've come to realise that I'm quite wedded to the whole concept of being able to see where I'm going.
My last column had, as we are supposed to but never actually do say, gone to bed by the time fellow columnist Jan Moir's piece about Stephen Gately's death appeared in print.
Regular readers will know my views on reality TV shows.
Despite living in the Golden Triangle where televisions are permanently tuned to BBC4 and anyone who admits they let their children watch CBBC is reported to social services, I am a huge fan of anything involving taking people (or celebrities) out of their comfort zones and then filming their rapid mental disintegration for my amusement.
Readers, I was so angry that I left a comment on the Daily Mail's website.
I must admit that I have somewhat of an obsession with the DM's messageboards, not least because I like the odd bad-tempered, wordy joust with the many cartoon bigots that lurk underneath stories about gay people, or asylum seekers or single mothers who refuse to call their daughters Jemima or shop at Mini Boden.
When I told my son that neither of my parents learned to drive and that instead we relied on public transport and cycles, he put his hand on my arm and said: 'poor Mummy'.