Folks, I'm definitely morphing into a belligerent battleaxe, like a female version of One Foot in the Grave's Victor Meldrew. Victoria Meldrew, perhaps.
The other day I was tootling up Queens Streeet, keeping a watchful eye on a bloke on a bike who was zig-zagging across my motor's path.
'Numbskull', I muttered, as I drove carefully past him.
Seconds later I was stopped at the red traffic lights and In my rear view mirror I could see the cyclist, one hand on the handlebars, one hand in his pocket, weaving his way through the queue of cars.
Then he disappeared from view.
Suddenly, he wobbled past my driver's door - and fell on top of my bonnet.
'I don't believe it!' I yelled, going on to add some words unsuitable for a family newspaper.
The next evening I was tuning into the vibrations of the universe at The Kings Theatre, doing a review for The Guide in The News tomorrow on an Evening of Mediumship with Gordon Smith.
Pre-show I went backstage to interview Gordon, and what a down to earth, charming, cheeky Scotsman he is.
As we left the dressing rom I said to my girliepal Firebird: 'What a dreamy, darling of a man. I could just pop him into my leopardprint handbag and take him home'.
'Behave, Miss James, he's got a show to do,' Firebird warned,
What a show it was folks. I've seen dozens of  platfrom mediums, both local and famous, and I tend to fidget, But Gordon Smith held me spellbound.
Sunday morning I was back at John Pounds Church, Old Portsmouth, interviewing Rabbi Irit Shillor - a lovely lady Rabbi.
I like John Pounds, because it's a Unitarian Church, and all faiths and none are welcome, so no-one's going to try andtoconvert me.
The service is a mix of all beliefs and inspirational stories, but hand on heart folks, I hate the hymn singing.
They all sound the  same to me, so I sing away, happily out of tune, like an X-Factor reject.

After church I took a constitutional toddle off down to the Hot Walls and got talking to local artists John Pearson and Roy Smith about their paintings displayed there.
Now I'm a  dreadful Philistine when it comes to art, I wouldn't know an Impressionist from a painting by numbers. I only like Salvador Dali, and Jack Vettriano.
I was reminiscing with Roy about how 20 years ago, all the arches were full of artists at their easels painting .
Both residents and visitors loved it.
Just another part of our colourful heritage diluted, while everyhting gets concentrated at Gunwharf. Shame, eh?
Tuesday, as I went into the loos in Asda and loud buzzers went off. I left the loo to the sound of more loud buzzers.
I walked through the exit and more alarms went off - and now other shoppers were staring at me.
A security tag was still on my purchases. As Victor would have said, 'I don't believe it!'.

What a week it's been, folks. I've been 'Bumper Kissing', meeting monkey-poo eating fish, and chatting to a charming chappie about Pompey's ghosts and ghoulies.
I must briefly mention the ignorant taxi driver who parked too close to my motor's rear last week, with only a couple of inches to manoeuvre. Sunshine, I've wriggled my cute chassis out of many a tight squeeze. I've got Gallic ancestry, so I did what any French driver would do and used my bumper for bumping.
Sorry, cabbie, but I 'bumper kissed' your car until I was free. C'est la vie.
Now, on to more slimy creatures.
I went to 'Ugh' week at The Blue Reef Aquarium on Saturday, and met some fish with very bad habits.
I was thrilled to be interviewing the aquarium's customer services lady, the effervescent and enthusiastic Jenna MacFarlane.
She escorted me round, enthralling me with tasy titbits about the occupants.
As it was 'Ugh' week, I met an archer fish that spit at flies, Scats that eat monkey poo, grey mullets that eat slime and starfish with 500 feet which they use to they breathe, taste and smell. Yuck.
I also met Nelson the puffa fish, who shares a tank with two leopard moray eels. 'Ooooh!' I exclaimed: 'Those eels match my handbag. How spooky'.
Talking of spooky, I met Jonathan Fost (CORR) in The Magic Bean Cafe on Tuesday, and what a fascinating man he is.
Jonathan's a Scientist who started an events company four years ago, doing Ghost Hunts around Portsmouth's most haunted locations like Wymering Manor and Fort Purbrook.
He's also doing Ghost Walks at Southsea Castle, and I'm going in March.
Now, even though I'm in the spook trade, I've never seen a ghost, and I don't believe in them.
Maybe this will change my mind...

little one..

It's a woman's secret world, into whicb any red-blooded Brit bloke ventures at his peril. I'm talking about the handbag.
My girliepals and I agree that our men would rather wash up than rummage in our leather junkyards.
But the problem is taht we cram so much stuff in our bags that designers are having to make them bigger and bigger.
Chiropractors are voicing concern that bags weighing more than 8lbs being carried on one shoulder are doing untold damage to pur posture.
Of course dedicated followers of fashion will ignore the warning and buy designer bags like the £1,250 Cloe Paddington, £600 Louis Vuitton Hampstead, and £495 Mulberry Bayswater.
If these coveted couture bags are beyond your budget, then help is at hand.
You can hire them for a modest weekly fee from a firm called Handbag Hire HQ. Sounds daft eh? But the company say they are attracting up to a hundred members a day.
So what about some bright spark coming up with 'Hire -A- Bloke'? Weekly fee to include, washing, ironing, shopping, taking the  kids to and from school.... sounds like a winner to me.

Last Wednesday I joined all the other Golden Goddesses to shake it all about at a  'light and easy' aerobics class nicknamed the 'nifty fifities workout'.
Following the session I went spin biking, although with my dodgy leg that only lasted about two minutes.
A spin bike looks to the untrained eye like any other exercise bike, except it has a free wheel, and is in perpetual motion - so there's no cheating.
Folks, the bike's saddle was so hard and pointy that it would leave bloke bikers ending up singing soprano.
The class was full of ladies of all ages enjoying the exercise, and one lively old ducky hit the pedal power like she was training for 'the tour de France.
I'd been invited to The John Pounds Centre in Queens Street, for their annual fitness and wellbeing 'One Day Spectacular'. It was a free taster day of some of the facilities the centre offers for all the family.
You can't see the Centre from the main road, so as I toddled down the cobbled street, I was looking for the usual blocky kind of community centre building.
Ho wrong I was. As I walked through the gates, I saw the futuristic building before me. It's gorgeous.
Double glass doors drew back to reveal a modern reception area leading to The Cobblers Cafe and the library.
The charming Matt Mason, who is the centre's director, took me up to the fully equiped gym, conference rooms, computer suite, and ceramics room.
It really is all rather plush.
Matt told me that although the centre has only been open for two years, it's already won two council awards, one for design and one for contribution to the community.
It's well worth a visit.
As you all know I'm always on bogwatch, and I'm pleased to say the ladies lavs were sparkling clean, with two flush buttons.
It was simply a pleasure to perch on the polished porcelain, dear.

Twenty years ago I was a bolshy babe with a black belt in tongue-fu.
If there were any kids outside the house making a rumpus,  I'd be out there with a 'clear orf you lot!'.
Nowadays I'm more menopausal than mouthy, and just mumble under my breath.
So what got into me last Saturday, I really don't know.
Perhaps, it was because the glorious winter sunshine was piercing my eyes like shards of glass and I couldn't see to drive.
As I tootled along, skateboarders shot off the pavement into the road four abreast, blocking my path.
Normally, I would just toot toot, and drive round them.
But not that day.
The old Warrior Goddess with bazoompahs of steel returned, and I drove at them, blasting my horn, and laughing manically as they scattered like skittles.
But my mirth was short lived, as in my rear view mirror I saw them regroup, and hurtle after me like the Four horsemen of the Apocalypse.
'Ooo fudgeroo,', I yelled, as my size five hit the accelerator, and I drove off like a bat out of hell.

Off I went last Sunday in newshoundess mode to find out more about The Oasis Centre - the name for the Elim Church in Arundel Street.
I thought if I went unannounced I could blend in with the congregation and secretly gain information. But who was I kidding?
As I was introduced to the effervescent Reverend Steven Potter, he grinned and said: 'I danced with you'.
Me?  Boogieing on down with one of God's boys? Apparently so.
It turns out that years ago I used to teach The Rev and his wife to salsa.
The Oasis Centre is Pentecostal, the same as Portsmouth Family Church, which I went to back in August.
Pentecostals are often dubbed 'happy clappies' - and I've got no problem with the way they praise the Lord. In fact all the singing and clapping is very uplifting for the soul.
In contrast to the Family Church, The Oasis opened it' doors in 1927, so it's not so razzamatazz with it's worship.
There's still a live group, video messages, and the congregation are so friendly, but it's all done in a much more subtle way.
As Reverend Potter says: 'A lot of people do not believe in religion, but they might want to believe in God'. Good point.
A few days earlier I was in Portsmouth's Temple of Spiritualism, in Victoria Road South, at a clairvoyance session with platform medium Sue Hayes.
Years ago I used to 'sit in circle', so it was nice to go back.
Anyway ,both Sue and I have mixed feelings about all the commercialism of The Spook Trade.
The media and Internet have made clairvoyance more accessable and acceptable.
But, be careful folks, there's big money to be made from gullible mugs.

I am writing this column with a used teabag on my bad eye in a semi-darkened room. I haven't gone mad - it's conjunctivitis. Brill eh?
Anyway, last Thursday Jemima Jollopy ( my car).,and myself took a jolly jaunt over to Haslar Hospital , where I had an appointment to see the surgeon about my other ailment - a dodgy knee.
Not only is it immaculately clean and polished and staffed by friendly nurses, but Haslar's car park is free.
The charming Mr Longbottom said I had a choice of a gory operation, or if I continued to do my exercises, my knee would eventually mend.
So I asked my consultant a very sensible question: 'When can I get my stilletoes on?'
I was told that I couldn't do that until a year's time. After all at nearly 57 years old, I have 57,000 miles on my knee.
I used to be in the motor trade, where we were often suspicious that the car for sale had been 'clocked' (its speedometer illegally wound back to a lower mileage).
Well folks, we can tweak our baggy bods and wrinkles. Wouldn't it be nice if we could 'clock' our inner biological ages.

Jeepers Creepers, the gremlins have got into my peepers.
I've just recovered from the mega snuffles virus,and now I've got conjunctivitis. Brill, eh?
While I was waiting for my prescription in Sunnyside Surgery last Friday, I thought I would impress the two lovely nurses.
'I've halved my smoking since Christmas,' I trilled, waiting for murmers of 'well done'.
Instead, from behind the curtain of the examination room I heard a male voice quip: 'That's good - now only half of you will die'.
Yeah OK Doc, point taken. So I was a very grumpy goddess all weekend.
My mood didn't improve on Monday, eyes still sore, and clutching onto the old 'syrup', I battled the high winds in Southsea to get to the Post Office.
Ten minutes of queuing and I started to see red. So I 'plugged into the positive'. Do you like that?
It's all part of my New Year's resolutions to rise above negativity, and to be serene. It won't last.
I decided to 'people watch' - one of my favourite pastimes. My eyes landed on the bottoms of two young fellas in front of me. It's not my fault - zoning in on blokes' bottoms must be a side effect of the medication for the conjunctivitis.
Now listen folks, I was in the rag trade, and I am no frump when it comes to modern fashion.
But, the jeans worn on by these two fellas were bellowing out from the bottom, because they'd pulled them down low on their hips.
Consequently, at least six inches of denim cascaded over their shoes.
Did we 60s kids used to dress that badly?
Maybe we did. I remember going to the infamous Birdcage club when I was 16, with two sets of false eyelashes, a lime green feather boa, a floor length suede coat, Hush Puppies, and a fringe below the nostrils.

little one

On ITV's lunchtime chat show Loose Women , the celebrity panel were discussing an article about Home Secretary Jacqui Smith, entitled: 'I wouldn't walk down a street alone at night'.
The lady panellists had different slants on the subject, but the general consensus was that they also didn't feel safe walking on Britain's streets alone in the dark.
Well that goes for me too, folks.
A few days ago I was collecting eye ointment at the late night chemist Rowlands in Fratton Road.
As I walked along to the convenience store, cussing hoodies passed me, swigging booze.
Inside, queuing behind me, was a belligerent inebriated woman.
Forty years ago, as a teenager I lived in Fratton, I walked home at night. Now I couldn't get in my car quick enough... and it was only 6.30pm.

Well slap my cellulite and super size me.
As all we girlies say, bigger is better.. when it comes to certain things. But when it comes to larger portions on our plates, it's our wobbly bits that are becoming the size that matters.
As a nation we are getting as corpulent as our American cousins.
I remember the first time I visited the USA nearly 20 years ago. I had never seen such, er, generously proportioned people. They were real lard-butts, dear.
I thought back then that we Brits would never be that fat, because our diet of meat and two veg might make us a bit podgy but never obese.
But like all that is American, fast food arrived here. Its potential dangers were demonstrated by Morgan Spurlock in the Oscar-nominated film Super Size Me.
I wasn't particularly surprised at his findings - that after a diet of three McDonald's meals a day, and very little exercise, he'd put on two stone.
Ot's not rocket science, that a carbohydrate-laden diet coupled with copious carbonated drinks, three times a day for 30 days, would possibly have a detrimental effect on some peoples health.
Occasionally, and just as a treat, I do thoroughly enjoy wrapping my lips round a Whopper or a Big Mac. But not all the time.
I'm sick of this blame society. No-one forces you to eat fast food. You buy it, you eat it, and you get fat. And if you do, it's your fault.

It was like an echo of my mind when I overheard a gentleman say out loud: 'There's just no dignity in old age'.
Last Friday I was in the mixed ward of one of the medical assessment units at Queen Alexandra Hospital, visiting my poorly Pa, when I had just had that same thought.
The previous evening I was reading in The News about the closure of more Post Offices.
So I thought I'll phone the glamorous Muriel Deacon, President of The Portsmouth Pensioners Association, and have a girlie gossip about both issues.
Oooh, Muriel sure is mad over the Post Offices.
And she told me that although Tony Blair was phasing out mixed wards, she's seen no evidence that is is a priority.
Her association's latest campaign is about bus tokens being only for the disabled. She thinks all elderly people should have them. If you agree, phone Muriel on 023 9282 6899.
Me? I'm three years off my bus pass, so I'm putting in a chit now for a diamante encrusted jet-propelled zimmer frame.

What price can you put on a child's smile, a war veteran's pride, a charity fundraiser's recognition, or an events organiser's delight?
Those are all things that are generated by a visit from the Lord Mayor. And to many, they are priceless.
I read in this newspaper last week a fascinating piece headlined 'Are mayors worth the money?'
Well, I'm happy to tell you my view. It's a resounding 'yes'.
As a writer and local broadcaster, I consider myself extremely fortunate to be present at many events in Portsmouth that are attended or opened by our Lord Mayor.
And I'm telling you, Pompey folks love it.
You can feel the excited anticipation as organisers check everything and everyone is tickety-boo for the Lord Mayor's arrival.
I do know from interviewing our current Lord Mayor that occasionally the youngsters are more interested in the mayoral chain or the shiny Jag.
At one local school's event last year, the pupils were in fancy dress. One young lad asked the blinged-up visitor: 'Who have you come as'.
Cllr Mike Blake answered: 'I'm the Lord Mayor', to which the lad replied: 'Ooooh. Cool.'
I agree with him. It is a cool job, especially with all the pomp and ceremony that goes with it. 
But here's a thought. Perhaps Portsmuthians could vote for their next Lord Mayor- and the contest could be open not just to councillors but to anyone.
With that in mind, I would like to mention that all that glorious golden bling-bling would look delightful nestled among one's divine double D dumplings, dear.

little one..

My chucklezone went into overdrive as I read the slogan on the car's bumper sticker. It said: 'Name two things that men do wrong.'
Underneath was the answer: 'Everything they say... and everything they do'.
Ah, It's not fair fellas, is it?
You've done your best,  you've been a 'new' man, a 'macho' man, and a 'metro' man.
You've buffed and puffed and perfumed yourself until you smell like a tart's boudoir. You've waxed you back, crack and... well, you know.
You've casually slung a 'man bag', over your shoulder, and checked out the Kama Sutra of kissing.....and still there's no pleasing modern woman.
When I was young, if a bloke was a good snogger and had a job, you married him.
Now, if you believe all the girlie glossy mags, bodacious Brit babes want a bloke with a BA in bonking.
Psst....I'll tell you a secret. No we don't.
We want one thing from a man....to make us feel special. It's that simple, fellas.
In the past I've been reprimanded jokingly that I'm not that nice to you chaps in  my column. So here goes, guys.
In the words of the late Dick Emery's blousy blonde: 'Oooh you are awful.... but I do like you'.