Wright On! - Shelley Wright takes a wry look at life

LAST night I found myself in one of those situations where you sit wondering how on earth you ended up there, doing that, then, when what you were actually supposed to be doing was going to the chippy with your grandad for tea.

It's not the first time I've found myself in one of those situations either - in fact I'm starting to feel like I'm starring in a new, extra-surreal sitcom. It's not good.

I often think regular readers of this column must wonder the same thing too, concluding that I either A, make all these things up, or B, am the unluckiest person in the world.

And I don't need to 'phone a friend or ask the audience either when it comes to working out that most people will plump for B.

I need to set the record straight.

You see, while I don't think I'm the unluckiest person in the world when you consider how other people live or the tragic things that happen in their lives, I'm also damn sure I don't make all this up. Honest.

And, let's face it, if I was going to concoct a cock and bull story about life in East Lancashire I'd make it a bit more glamorous than living in a two-bedroomed terrace house in Haslingden where holes in ceilings are considered de rigeur and the North West's Squawking Chicken Champions are right next door.

I mean, if I was going to fib about these things I'd at least tell you I was living with Robbie Williams in a converted barn in the area's stockbroker belt and spending weekends flitting between several overseas homes and hob-nobbing with Noel and Meg, wouldn't I? But then after last night's performance I don't really think I'd fit in with that kind of fancy lifestyle anyway.

See what you think.

I'd arranged to pick up my 15-year-old cousin Abigail, who usually makes me feel about 45, and take her to see my grandad Harold, who usually makes me feel about 12, and we'd planned to spend the evening watching TV, stuffing a chippy tea.

Only when we arrived, Harold had received a better offer and arranged for us to join my auntie and other cousin for some pub grub.

So fine, great, no problem, I think. Until I'd driven 15 miles along some dark, twisting, country lane, past several Brewer's Fayre-type pubs, only to arrive at a fancy-looking hostelry with a car park that resembled the forecourt of the local Posh Cars Are Us.

Thank goodness we'd opted to leave my auntie's beat-up Fiat Punto at home, I thought, before realising I'd dashed out in my jogging top, vest and trainers, bank and credit-card-less and with only enough money for pudding, chips, peas and gravy three times stuffed into my combat pants.

That's not to mention the fact I was now in the middle of nowhere, faced with a posh menu I couldn't understand or afford and with nowhere near enough petrol to get me, my two cousins, auntie and grandad home. The question "How do I get involved in these things?" doesn't begin to cover it really, I think you'll agree.

And the thing was I'd been really looking forward to that pudding, chips, peas and gravy all day - and had even forced myself to go swimming earlier in a bid to burn off some calories in advance - but I needn't have bothered because when my "British beef with real chips" arrived I was faced with a simple, lonely-looking lump of meat, three artistically-arranged shallots and nine chips neatly stacked in a Jenga pile.

To make matter worse, my cousin, who fancies himself as a bit of a chef and general fancy-pants, decided it was the perfect time to ditch his broad Bolton accent and adopt the Queen's English - though he sounded more like Lloyd Grossman on a bad day. It was the Wright family telephone voice times twenty-five I'm afraid. Aaargh!

Anyway I offered my contribution when the bill came but as a fiver didn't begin to even cover the sweet it was decided I should stop for petrol and at least attempt to get us all home.

I'll think I'll stay there from now on, eh?

Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.