I'm embarrassed to tell you this, but I'm worried about myself and have been for a while. You see, I don't think I'm a real man; I can't be.
Now, there's nothing physical, it's all in the mind.
Can't be in the genes. My dad wouldn't have been seen dead doing what I do and my grandfather, well he was all gruff, and welding and stoking, and 10 pints at lunch- time without missing a beat.
So, it's just me ... I love shopping. There. That's it said now and I feel better for coming out.
If it all goes wrong in the radio game, I've a new career planned as a surrogate boyfriend/fiancé/ husband. For a small fee, I'll shop with you girls till you drop.
No more miserable Saturday afternoons in town with him and his face trippin' him. I'll be interested in all your stuff and I'll take you for a wee cup of tea and empire biscuit.
Shopping's always appealed to me, not necessarily buying, looking's fine.
I've always liked department stores and the overpowering smell of different perfumes as you enter, the latest fashions, the kitchenware, I do like that.
Oh, and the furniture departments that never seem to have anyone buying anything, ever.
The whole ritual appeals to me. I particularly enjoy a break for lunch with the bags under the table.
It's not there now, but I used to love Ferguson's in Renfield Street. It had a Danish theme in its restaurant and they always asked "Is there anything more?" never "anything else"... classy.
Before Sharon had her back operation, she couldn't walk the length of herself. So, when she got better we celebrated with a trip to town - two hours looking at soft furnishings.
You could see people look, probably wondering what the attractive young woman was doing with an old ugly bloke.
No doubt they thought I was rich!
Some say the Chinese had it right with their yin and yang ethos - and since enjoying the company of Mr McCauley I know there is definitely something in it.
You see, I am one of those rare breed of girls who hate shopping (short intake of breath by all).
Yes, it's true.The other day for example, I found myself at a sea of make-up stands looking for my usual failsafe brand of mascara, only to discover that it was discontinued.
I could feel the dread lapping at my toes as I stood there in 'Reluctance Bay' realising I would have to find a replacement.
Did I need my lashes to look like a super-glued empire state building; blackest black witchy vamp or curly wurly dreadlocks? This would take a while.
My loitering got so bad that I started to notice the shop assistant hovering, and it dawned on me that given I was wearing a rather bulky army jacket with very deep pockets as a result of this delightful May weather, perhaps she was concerned that I might be of a similar professional persuasion to the The Artful Dodger.
Out of sheer desperation I struck up a conversation with said shop assistant, blaming my indecision on having what I like to term my 'baby brain.'
For info: I have discovered that if you act in an unusual way for no apparent reason, or are perhaps a little absent-minded, implying that I gave birth to my 'brain' as well as my baby, can often get you out of a jam.
However, not in this case. So I grabbed a bling tube, found my credit card, paid, and legged it.
So you see, John and I are meant to be together (in a platonic sense!), as if it wasn't for him, I'd be walking about like a cross between Danny La Rue, above, or those other well-known Chinese exports, Sunshine and Sweetie.