As regular readers will know, I occasionally flirt with a bit of culture. (Well, when I say flirt, it's more of a yearning gaze as culture goes dancing past with someone younger and prettier.) But tonight, I had culture thrust upon me...at Charters, unlikely as that may sound.

It all started when Ms Jones asked me along to something called A Pint of Poetry; she'd been invited to this by someone called either Louise or Emily (she wasn't sure which - Ms Jones has a cavalier attitude towards remembering names when the sparkling wine is flowing). This is held once a month, and is organised by a bunch of poetry lovers - mostly English teachers, it seemed. (What is the collective noun for a group of English teachers? Printable answers on a postcard, please. First prize is a night out with me at Charters. Second prize is two nights out with me at Charters. Oh, the old ones are always the best.)

Anyway, we went along tonight with Emily/Louise. It was an eye-opener. It's a sort of intellectual karaoke night, but without the music, or the lyrics, or Mr Young slumped over the microphone, slurring out Frank Sinatra songs for two hours.

I would have enjoyed it all much more than I did if Emily/Louise hadn't chosen to tell me that I was the spitting image of her friend Hilda Grungebatt, who lived out in the middle of the Fens somewhere. I wasn't thrilled by this and told her so.

"Why can't you tell me that I bear an amazing similarity to your friend glamorous Gloria Fabulous who lives in a Mayfair penthouse?" I told Emily/Louise. "I don't want to be the spitting image of someone called Hilda Grungebatt who lives in the middle of nowhere."

Emily/Louise was unrepentant. "Well, I'm sorry, but you do!" she said. "And you don't just look like her, you act like her and talk like her too!" Luckily for Emily/Louise, another poet took to the mike just then and I had to be content with smoldering unhappily into my glass of red wine, trying to think up disagreeable words that rhymed with either Emily or Louise.

It was a good night, though, and Ms Jones and I felt positively marinaded in culture. Some of the poems were very entertaining and possibly very good - I don't feel I am really in a position to judge when I spent a good five minutes wondering where one poet had bought her black sparkly cardigan instead of listening to the verses she'd so lovingly put together.

Still, I did work out that knees, cheese and fleas all rhyme with Louise (although I couldn't think of anything for Emily.) I'm sure I'll be able to come up with a nice little limerick for next time. Hilda Grungebatt indeed!

Friday

I have just realised that it is a whole year since I started writing this column. When I first began, I worried every week that I wouldn't find anything interesting to write about. But that didn't stop me, as I'm sure both my regular readers will have noticed. When the well of inspiration was running dry, all I had to do was place a metaphorical banana skin in Mr Young's path and wait for the inevitable hilarious results.

A whole year. That's 52 columns, which is 31,200 words. I am amazed that I had that many words in me. The pressure's on now, though, isn't it? Column ideas on a postcard, please. First prize is dinner with Mr Young. Second prize is two dinners with Mr Young.