All was certainly right with my world. I felt euphoric, even though ten hours of work lay ahead and I'd only had five hours of sleep the previous night. A good mood had not merely come over me, I'd been positively mugged by cheerfulness.

Had someone been putting Prozac in the drinking water? Was it my hormones? Had I died during the night, gone to heaven and not been notified? No, it was far simpler - spring had arrived early. It was warm, the daffodils were out, the sun was shining - and obviously going to my head.

And not mine alone. Later, on the train, I noticed that the man in the regulation dark grey office suit opposite was wearing a tie alive with dancing teddy bears, and that a woman across the aisle had a cuddly toy Tigger peeping out from her briefcase. One chap even finished his mobile phone call with a whispered 'I love you'.

Half an hour later, when the train raced through Three Bridges Station and inexplicably failed to stop, everyone giggled (unheard of amongst morning commuters) as the driver reversed the train back towards the platform lined with bewildered souls bound for the City. When he apologised they even smiled. There wasn't a scowl in sight.

Then I met George Clooney - and oh, what a perfect day. OK, it wasn't the real GC but a chap who was a passable imitation if you didn't look too closely.

He smiled, he spoke, he was going into my office. Now I knew I'd died and gone to heaven. Or perhaps I was really still asleep and dreaming in my Brighton bed.

Iwas entranced. This was the sort of man to diet for, a man to book a pedicure and a leg wax for. Oh, yes, that old going-to-get-you-in-a-lot-of-trouble sap was rising all right. Oh, the joys of spring indeed - I actually felt quite skittish.

At lunchtime I was still fizzing with energy and bad intentions. I went and bought a bright pink blouse - again, totally out of character for someone who has worn black from puberty.

Then, still firing on all cylinders, I bought a new hair colour which promised to change me from a faded mouse streaked with grey into a frisky copper blonde. The result? Well, substitute fiery ginger for copper, and you'll get the picture. But who cares? I certainly didn't.

Obviously this behaviour couldn't continue. And it didn't. By the end of the week rain, as they say, stopped play. As the temperatures dropped so did the sap and I was back to normal, or what I call normal.

It was, said a friend, as if someone had put a cloth over the cage of an irritating, chirruping budgie. And I must admit, I was relieved as well. Being so cheerful was quite exhausting.

Istill have the fiery, ginger hair to live up to, however, but as this weekend is the official start of British Summertime, I guess there'll be plenty of new opportunities for the sap to rise again. Oh, dear.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.