Last week I did something that I haven't done for years - and this time I wasn't sick either.

I went to the panto. Oh, yes I did! Oh, no I won't say that again. Promise.

Now I'm going to be perfectly honest. I've never liked pantomimes, though that fact had nothing to do with my being sick when I took my then small son to Brighton's Theatre Royal 25 years ago.

I hadn't been drinking, nor was I pregnant. I was just unwell. We left just after the first act and I haven't been to see a panto since that day.

So what, or who, was it that lured me from my centrally-heated living room on a cold January afternoon to watch the exploits of the wimpish Cinderella?

Julian Clary, that's who (or what? as my father used to say). But this isn't a promotional for the delightful Mr Clary, so enough of that.

Getting tickets was far from simple. Most shows were sold out but some seats were available for weekday matinees. Two front-row seats in the second circle sounded ideal but then I remembered there was a handrail at the front of the circle which might obscure my view.

"Are you very short?" I was asked (I was booking the seats over the phone).

How short is very short? I wondered. I soon found out. "I'm about 5ft 2in," I said. "Ah well, you'd be better off sitting in the second row then, it's just that bit higher," the voice told this obviously very short person.

"I wonder what sort of people go to a pantomime on a bitterly cold midweek afternoon three weeks after Christmas?" I said to my friend as we walked to the theatre.

"People like us," she replied. But she was wrong. When we arrived we found ourselves in a theatre full of people under ten and over 70.

Once we were seated and the lights dimmed, the entertainment began.

A woman with two small children arrived late, couldn't find her place and disrupted the entire front row. She was brusquely told to sit down or move away by an elderly man just across the aisle on our right.

Next a large woman, obviously uncomfortable in the confines of her seat directly in front of Mr Grumpy, began to squirm and fidget in a most disconcerting manner. Is it catching? I thought.

Mr Grumpy leant forward and whispered something into the woman's ear. "How dare you!" she hissed in return - but she remained perfectly still after that.

Then someone coughed, a signal for a trio of nose blowers to begin a nasal overture.

"Hrrrumph!" went Mr Grumpy in annoyance.

There was a boiled sweet cruncher on the row behind and a paper-bag rustler somewhere to their left. Mr Grumpy turned and silenced them with a curt, "Do be quiet!" No please, still less a thank you.

On my way to the loo during the interval I saw a spectacle case lying at Mr Grumpy's feet. I stopped to tell him.

When I returned my friend asked me what I'd said.

"I told him I thought he was very lucky not to have had a punch on the nose by now," I said.

"Oh, no you didn't!" she replied.

"Oh, yes I did . . .!"