I am worried about the parting from my friendly tartan sofa rug and my Primark slouchers. I am worried that every outdoor garment I possess is made of tweed or pilled wool. I am worried that I will not manage opinions on the Greek bail-out and the obesity crisis with an intellect shrunken by Balamory. And I am worried that the Vicar will forget to put the bins out. Above all, though, I am worried that I am so worried.
I pull on my edgiest cable-knit and I buff up my spectacles and I am a scuttling woolly figure reflected in shop windows. But when I breathe the thick brothy air of the Underground I am energised. I stride to the ticket barriers feeling a girl-about-town and tap my ticket into the slot with the flair of a seasoned commuter.
Except that I've forgotten that you no longer tap tickets in slots; you swipe Oyster cards on pads. And I've forgotten that the blue of my Oyster card is the same blue as my debit card. And I've fed the debit card into the slot and it hasn't come out again.
I seek out a ticket inspector. I am relieved that he is young and good-looking and that I am a blonde girl-about-town. 'What were you thinking?' he marvels, whipping a screw driver from his trousers. 'It must have been something very exciting!' I say, and I discover that I am simpering.
He thrusts opens the slot and prises my card from clenched metal jaws and I stand there trying to look ornamental. And then I glimpse my woolly reflection in a glass barrier. I realise that it's not gallantry he's directing at a beguiling young blonde; it's pity for a befuddled middle-aged matron. And I stride onwards, trying to walk tall, but I don't feel a girl-about town any more: I want my tartan rug.