From paying off friends' tax bills to rescuing stray dogs and stuffing £20 notes into the hands of homeless people, I can't get rid of my money fast enough.

One Christmas build-up tradition, however, has totally bypassed me - that of going up to town and 'doing a show.'

It seems that one moment I was this little kid only caring about animals and flowers and stuff, and then the next minute I was this raging stew of hormones. I don’t know if you’ve ever been a raging stew of anything, but I wouldn’t particularly recommend it.

We sat there smiling at each other, shimmied to a standstill, thinking about all the boys that had wanted us that day, and how none of them had got us, not for a minute; how we’d let them pay for drinks and candyfloss and then run away laughing, their cries of ‘Slags!’ and ‘Bitches’ ringing in our ears like respect rather than derision.

Only those who haven’t got the wit to speak for themselves would ever want their clothes to do it for them.

It is also interesting to note that the original supermodels are now making a comeback after being dismissed in the Nineties as being ‘greedy’ by a gaggle of male designers who lived like Sun Kings.

Transsexualism is, basically, just another, more drastic twist on the male menopause.

I won’t be going to any New Year’s Eve parties because I think they’re naff. No one over the age of 15 should bother going to parties.

As a child, I wanted only two things – to be left alone to read my library books, and to get away from my provincial hometown and go to London to be a writer. And I always knew that when I got there, I wanted to make loads of money.

These women whose antics we smirk at good-naturedly in the pap-traps put themselves out there at least partly on their beauty; they are in showbiz, and showing what they’ve got is part of their business as much as it is for male show-ponies from the Chippendales to George Clooney.