OUR usual Sunday girls' catch-up was in full flow when one of the group declared:

"Well, that's the world's sexiest man finally off the market then now that he's getting married."

"Who's that then?" Christine asked.

"What do you mean who's that?" I asked.

"George Clooney of course."

"World's sexiest man?" Nicola mocked. "Sure he is handsome, but he's not my type."

"He's everyone's type," I exclaimed.

And then there began a comical dispute over each person's celebrity crush.

"I've always gone for the more rugged type," offered Angela.

"Like who?" I asked, curious to know who she thought was more handsome than George Clooney.

"You'll never guess," she teased.

And sure enough she was right. After many unsuccessful attempts we gave up before she dramatically announced: "Mr Spock."

"Mr Spock? Mr Spock!" we all roared.

"Eh. I think you need to visit Specsavers," I told her.

When we finished snorting with laughter we went round each other and named our handsome dream partner until finally we came to Nicola.

"See if you can guess who mine is?" she goaded.

We took up the challenge. After all it couldn't be worse than Mr Spock.

"Give us a clue then," I asked.

"Well, he's a soap star who first appeared on TV in 1985."

We went through every imaginable hunky soap character we could think of before admitting defeat.

Nicola's face softened into a beaming, loving smile as she pictured her heart-throb before announcing dramatically: "It's Ian Beale."

"What, Ian Beale, the guy who runs the cafe from EastEnders?" we bellowed collectively.

And so it came out how Nicola had had a 'thing' for Ian Beale for decades.

"He wouldn't be my choice," said Julie.

"Mind you, he's not much in the looks stakes but at least he could make you a smashing cooked breakfast."

I turned to Angela.

"Talking of breakfasts. Remember the time your oven went on fire?"

The other girls hadn't heard the story so she explained: "My new oven went on fire after I put sausages in it and forgot about them.

"But I did try to be a decent cook though. I was newly married and I decided to treat my new husband Jim to a nice pot of stew."

"You can't go wrong with that," nodded Julie.

"Well, you would think so," agreed Angela. "But I only cooked it for 20 minutes before serving it up. Poor Jim eventually gave up as his jaws were too sore chewing and from then on he went back to his mum's every night for his dinner."

"Angela's cooking was so bad that seagulls used to leave crusts on HER windowsill," I joked.

The girls chuckled as I continued.

"I remember the night she forgot to remove the cellophane from the pizzas she dished up and I nearly choked to death."

"All right. All right," cried Angela.

"So cooking was never my strong point."

In an attempt to steer the subject in a different direction, Angela changed the topic of conversation to the fast-approaching Referendum.

"I hope everyone is going to vote," she said, sounding a bit like a schoolmistress. We nodded in confirmation.

So then, the arguments for and against an independent Scotland began. And admittedly, despite us having enjoyed a few glasses of wine by then, some very valid points were raised for either side.

We were obviously speaking a little loudly because a woman at the next table decided to join in.

"I'm definitely for the Yes vote," she informed us, although we hadn't actually asked.

"Why is that then?" we asked.

"Well," she paused for a gulp of wine, "I know it might sound trivial but, every time the UK weather forecast comes on the telly ..."

We waited with bated breath.

"Well, every time it comes on ... Scotland is always last. And I'm sick of it."

"Seriously?" I asked, flabbergasted. "That's honestly the reason you're voting Yes?"

"Of course," she confirmed. "It annoys me every single time."

The No voters among us shook their heads in disbelief. Funnily enough, so did the Yes voters.

A young waitress who was clearing away the empty glasses from our table decided she had to get her bit in too.

"That's not much of a reason to vote Yes," she told the lady. "I'm definitely voting No."

The No voters perked up like meerkats and smiled smugly.

Perched on the edge of our seats we asked: "So what's made you decide on a No vote then?"

"The pandas."

"Eh!?"

"The pandas?" I finally stammered.

"Yes," she continued without a flicker of embarrassment. "I read that if we vote Yes and Scotland becomes independent, there is a chance that the pandas will be moved out of Scotland, she sighed. "And I love the pandas."

"OMG," screeched Christine. "Who would have thought Scotland's future could depend on two pandas?"