Some 20-year-matured cynicism and an inadequately-stocked childhood dressing-up box have taught me that much.

I will probably never be a ballerina.

I will never be the Pink Power Ranger.

It's ok, I can handle the reality of a lycra-less future (the upside being that I will never be Rosemary Conley, either).

I will never be a natural blonde again.

I will never be a Birkenstock-wearer.

I will never be someone who can eat a Club biscuit in normal bites, without embarking on a chocolate excavation mission with her bottom teeth.

I will never be Nancy (and nor will screechy Niamh and her impossibly willowy limbs now, thank the Lord Lloyd- Webber).

I don't have it in me to be a teacher, traffic warden or telephone fundraiser.

Or somebody who owns napkin rings.

Nor do I have it in me to stop singing my special pub adaptation of The Knack, "My Corona", every time I order one.

It'll never happen

These are all things I have come to terms with.

I have learnt to accept that I will probably complete the long crawl towards inevitable death never having known the correct difference between "license" and "licence", or exactly where Somerset is.

I can tell Ant from Dec, and that's achievement enough for one lifetime.

Surprisingly, though, it turns out that the human soul is an adaptable entity.

However certain I may be that I will never be a Neil Diamond fan who queues for the 5am Next sale, one fateful day I might wake up humming Sweet Caroline with the unshakeable urge to buy a beige cardigan at 75 per cent off.

I never thought I had it in me to be one of the maniacal losers who screams over the railings at film premières, offering their first born to an extra whose elbow was on screen for five minutes of Gladiator.

But good gracious, knock me down with a five-foot promotional cutout, it seems I do.

Much as I would usually heap hot, boiling scorn upon this subspecies of society, the bug-eyed, memorabilia-wielding shriekatron, collating celebrity sweat particles for experiments in an at-home laboratory basement decorated with pictures of Dean Gaffney, there are certain occasions when I can make concessions and morph into one myself.

This week, to fill in those of you whose discerning minds offer no space to accommodate 400 pairs of Monolo Blahniks and the phrase "I couldn't help but wonder…" every 7.2 minutes, was a momentous occasion for girlkind.

Did you not notice the sky turn momentarily pink and rain rhinestones?

It was the Sex and the City movie world première. Yes, I was there.

Don't judge.

Case for the defence

In my defence, it was a fairly half-hearted submission to the ways of the scaryüberfan.

No autograph books, no banners, no t-shirts declaring "Carrie me away, Mr Big!!!" in glitter glue (is it terribly obvious that one wasn't thought up as I was typing?).

We only arrived a modest three hours early, without a pre-packed picnic or portable air-con unit and clearly exuding the air of rookies.

"I say, is there a première on?

"We were just taking an innocent stroll through the West End… but now you mention it, I DO have my camera. What luck!"

And as is only deserving for rookies, our attempts at dignity were punished by a second-rate crowd spot.

Where we were met by the amorous attentions of two pungent, greasy men unfamiliar with notions of personal space…. or, it seemed, the results of a student's elbow jabbed directly where it hurts, eh mate?

Why were they there?

The spirit of diplomacy died a death under the collective opinion that heterosexual men had no place sharing our rapturous anticipation; they had clearly neglected to notice the "and the City" affix and marched, open-mouthed, to Leicester Square under the impression that it was a promise.

Not ONCE did I hear either of them comment on the outfits.

And OH. WHAT. OUTFITS. THEY. WERE.

If at any point the words "SarahJessicayouarefaaaaabulous" left my mouth, I cannot be held responsible.

It was a temporary aberration.

Actually, I believe I was momentarily possessed by the spirit of my six-year-old self, mourning the lack of Parker's frothy green frock and foot-high foliage headdress in my dressing-up box – she being yet another of those people I will never be.

But breathing the same sweaty air as her for half an hour was a faaabulous consolation prize.

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