Here at Jenny Towers, there’s a new mystery unfolding behind closed curtains. As cheesy music thumps from a stereo more used to playing hardcore rock or Ibiza dance classics, so the laminate flooring bumps in time to carefully choreographed cheerleader routines.

Sort of.

I have All Star Cheerleader for my Wii. It’s almost tragic to see me bounce around my own living room waving the Wii remote and numchuk like they are pompoms. I tend to wear my netball kit, because it’s the closest I come to a cheerleader uniform. At least no-one ever sees me. Except the postman. Well, he seemed happy enough to be greeted at the door by a six foot Amazonian women wearing a T-shirt, netball skirt and all hot and out of breath.

Zoë thinks it’s just another one of my random crazes, like when I took up netball a few years ago. Oh how that lasted. Not. Well, my excuse is that we moved from Durham, and it’s hard to play netball on your own. I did try cheerleading too whilst in Durham. That didn’t go too well, seen as I have all the coordination of a dyslexic spider. Trying to dance. Whilst on fire. Maybe I should tell myself that at six-foot-one and *mumble*stone and four pounds I’m just not built to throw myself around.

Still, it’s a fun game and it makes a change from Wii tennis for a good energetic workout in the comfort of my own front room. Now all I need is a proper cheerleading uniform. Unfortunately I cannot find anywhere good in the UK that does them and getting them on import from the US involves a lot of hassle and desiphering of weird sizing systems that seem to mean that all American cheerleaders are the size of small children with big tits and not a lot else.

Sometimes it’s tough living with OCD. Almost as tough as living with me I expect.