According to The Mother, I have no shame. "You can't go into a shop and do THAT!" she said. "Does nothing embarrass you?"

All I did, actually, was go into a shop, well three shops, open my mouth - and sing. You know: "Tra la la, tra la la ... "

It certainly got me what I wanted. Which was? A song that had been haunting me for several weeks.

Trouble was I had no idea of the title, or the singer, but I could hum a few bars. So I did, right there in the middle of the record store(s).

It's not that I love an audience but I do love that particular tune and I was willing to do anything to track it down (no pun intended), even sing in public.

It wasn't singing really, more of a hum. When I started to "la la la" in the first shop, the assistant - young, female, obviously disinterested - started to smirk.

My impulse was to grab her round the throat and shout: "Do you know who I am? I'm the woman who used to be the star soloist in my school choir, a choir whose rendition of Jerusalem brought tears to the eyes of the Lord Mayor of Bradford in 1960."

Instead I said "Sorry" (why do people who are in the right always feel it necessary to apologise?) followed by: "It doesn't look as if you've got it, does it?"

Little Miss Smirk shook her head. Undeterred, I strutted my stuff in a second store. A pimply youth stood awkwardly by my side as I trilled.

"It could sound very different sung by a woman," he said.

"Look here," I said gripping his arm. "I may have short hair and be wearing jeans but I also happen to be wearing lipstick, eye-shadow and a bra - which may or may not mean very much in Brighton.

"My gender, however, is female and has been for many years before you were even born."

"No, no," he protested. "I meant a professional woman singer, like Kylie, Britney or J.Lo."

"Who?" I said.

"Kylie Minogue ... " he started to explain.

"No, the other one, J.Lo. Never heard of her."

"Never heard of Jennifer Lopez?" he said, looking at me with what I took to be either pity or contempt.

I'm out of here, I thought.

The staff in the third store looked equally hostile to the over 50s (make that over 35s). But I wasn't going to be beaten.

Here we go again then " ... la la la, la, la la."

"Wait a sec," said a girl with burgundy coloured hair. "I'll get the manager."

Lord, I'm going to be thrown out but no, the manager came out not to mock but to listen.

"That's rather pretty," he said, "and I'm certain I know the singer and the song."

He went to find the CD I'd been searching for all these past months.

"If your singing's anything to go by, this should be the one," he said. I felt like kissing his cheek but proffered my plastic instead.

"Remember that tune I keep humming?" I said later to The Mother, la la la-ing a few bars. "I've finally tracked it down. Listen."

"That doesn't sound anything like your humming," she said as we listened.

And it didn't, because it wasn't my tune we were hearing. It was something that sounded like a mating cat.

"Are you going to return that and get your money back?" The Mother asked, pointing to the CD.

"Probably," I mumbled. But I won't of course. Truth is, I'd be far too embarrassed.