Let's talk about last Saturday night. Again. I'd forgotten to mention this bit. When we staggered into our local, we hadn't realized there was an opening night for an exhibition going on. I did briefly wonder why there were girls wandering round with bits of twig in their hair, but put it down to the location being once of the ponciest postcodes around. Anyway, once we'd worked out what was going on, we started eagerly looking round for the free booze and twiglets. Of which there were none, but by this time Dawn was working the floor, picking up waifs and strays, so we had to stay put, and pay for our drinks.

This is the exhbition we inadvertantly witnessed:

I know nothing about art, but I like pretty pictures, and wavy lines, and colours that make you feel more than a little uncomfortable. Happily enough, the artist had managed to combine all three. This brings me on to the main focus of my uneventful tale.

The artist himself. He was a very attractive man, messy hair and sparkly eyes and the smile of a child, all the usual guff that gets a girl's knees knocking and her knickers dropping. I also detected the slight tang of an Aussie accent. Mhmm. I did something I almost never do when something pretty this way comes. I made an attempt at conversation. It wasn't a good one. I suspect I went a bit wide-eyed and 'yah completely' and 'god, I soooo know what you mean'. But still. Nobody's drink was spilled, nobody's advances were rebuffed, he gave me a flyer for his next show, and then I went a bit psycho bitch this evening, googled him, and invited him to be my friend on MySpace.

He has a girlfriend though. Which is just as well. It means I can sit and gaze and sigh and not actually have to worry about doing anything. My idea of the perfect relationship.

Well. Fear. No. More.

Introducing, the Flirt Proof, Frill Free, Fumble No More, Knickermeister 3000.

Using the appliance of science, and some big, long, mostly made-up words, we have developed a brand of underwear which will guarantee you never ever wake up next to some cod-faced 2 minute wonder with a Batman duvet cover again!

At the first utterance of a cheesy chat up line or the hint of a serial shagger on the prowl, a hidden device is activated in your knickers, which automatically sends out a warning to your chosen sponsor (mum, dad, best friend, parole officer, whoever). They will then be provided with your location via a sophisticated satellite navigation system (carrier pigeon) and be at the scene in minutes to take you home and save you from yourself. And probably a nasty dose of the clap.

The Knickermeister 3000 is available at Woolworths, Aldi, Tesco, Dixons and The CarPhone Warehouse.

In the hardware shop, urging you to get mum a new set of screwdrivers? At the greasy spoon offering a special Mother's Day breakfast, with an extra piece of fried bread, to say thank you for the gift of life?

You must have noticed the adverts? Every album in Britain, from Boyzone to Chas and Dave, has been re-packaged and re-branded as the middle-aged woman's music of choice, just perfect for this special day. If you're still oblivious to the message, your newspaper or magazine will also be trying to get in on the act, by offering a trip to Chessington World of Adventures for one lucky reader and her mumsy. GMTV will be badgering you to phone up and relate the story of how when you were three, you got a lego man stuck up your nose and your mum just laughed and put A&E on speed dial. Florists will be placing big buckets of bouquets in the middle of the pavement, so that if you're too mean to fork out for a bunch, chances are you'll trip over them and break something nasty.