I dragged Darbs along to the bi-monthly comedy night that is currently filling my contemporary cultural needs. We got our heads together ( although not too closely as I remembered a passing remark he'd made about nits in his son's nursery class - I'm sure they don't go for thick hair like mine, even my hair is so fat that nits don't fancy it, but I wasn't taking any chances) to discuss potential comperes.

It occurred to me that if I wore a large black t-shirt and messed my hair up a bit, I might get mistaken for Jo Brand. Talk about value for money! I even went so far as to point out that with my musical abilities, I could play the piano in the interval and the crowd would believe Victoria Wood was also appearing. Darbs thought they were more likely to think Les Dawson was alive and well. We resolved that a professional compere was essential if only to save our own sanity and friendship.

I'd not had time for tea before I'd gone out. Darbs had mentioned the prospect of a pizza on the way home but I pretended that I was sticking to my diet, much more attractive than admitting to chronic gluttony even if the tell-tale rolls of fat were escaping over my seat belt at the time. So I was ravenous when I got in and promptly polished off a tub of cottage cheese, a triangle of Laughing Cow, 2 rhubarb and gooseberry yoghurts and a cereal bar, the only things that took absolutely no preparation that Jack hadn't already devoured.

It was only this morning that the truth of what I have become dawned on me. It explains the inability to concentrate for any length of time, the mood swings, the bloatedness, the dramatic weight gain, the ill-fitting clothes, the constant need for cash.

I am a SnackHead!

I know I should try cold turkey, but I'd only smother it in lashings of mayonnaise and a side helping of chunky chips.