Pancake Day. The one night of the year when I can feel more virtuous and disciplined than everyone else. I hate Pancakes.

Actually, I probably don't hate them any more, I just don't eat them. I remember every year as a kid, the local Chapel had a special event where everyone would congregate and we would serve plates and plates of rubbery disks covered in freshly squeezed oranges and sugar to the entire village population, all 200 of them and then sit down to watch a slide show of Rebecca O' The Ringlets', (South Daysgoneby's answer to Shirley Temple) family holiday. There would be her Grandma standing next to a holy relic. And then her Grandad, standing next to the same holy relic. And, yes, Rebecca O' The Ringlets together with her younger sister, Ruth Also O' The Ringlets looking up at the holy relic, followed by all her aunts, uncles and cousins. This routine would be repeated for hours upon hours, every year, without fail. It may well be occurring right now, at this very moment. Things don't change much in South Daysgoneby, although Rebecca has now handed her Crown of Ringlets down to her daughter, Olivia, who is proudly carrying on the family tradition.

I think it was the oranges that put me off. I've never liked them. My mother is allergic to mandarin oranges and had a rather nasty reaction to them just before I was born.I have a theory about this which I might share another time. She craved cockles though, apparently. So while the rest of the country are clearing their cupboards for Lent, whether they realise this is what they are doing or not, I'll just suck a whelk and see if the bathroom scales congratulate me in the morning.