Many people think I'm strange and one or two consider me certifiable, but those who are closest to me know my history and are able to forgive my many and various eccentricities. One of my best friends is especially down-to-earth and is about as unshockable as it's possible to be, but yesterday she came pretty close to calling in the nice men in white coats.

I was having a nice day at home. I'd worked the whole of last week and was looking forward to getting the house into some kind of order. I had an ironing pile that required oxygen to surmount and I wanted to get the bottom of it as quickly as possible. My ironing basket always has a couple of things in the bottom that I never touch. There's an old tea towel, a child's blouse and an orphan napkin. I see them in there and I know I should get them out, but I always end up piling more ironing on top of them, and as long as they are out of sight I know I don't have to deal with them. Each time I get to the bottom of the pile I can see them looking up at me, and I can almost hear them saying, "Me! Me! Iron me now!' But all I ever do is lift them up and then drop them back down again. Eventually the day will come when I'll just pick them up out of the bottom of the basket and toss them into the bin, but for now repeated smothering will have to suffice.

Anyhow, back to my story. I had switched on my iron, filled up the water reservoir and was wearing my essential ironing aid; sometimes I need Radio Four, and sometimes Radio Two, but yesterday I wanted my own choice of music. I was happily ironing (well, everything's relative) and David Bowie had just launched into 'Diamond Dogs', when my friend Linda knocked at the door. She waited, and on hearing no reply, decided to come into the house to look for me. When she walked into the hall, and called out my name, I called out a reply, but it wasn't the one she was expecting. Instead of a cheery, 'Come on in.' what she got was, 'Bow wow, woof woof.' Now Linda is about as unflappable as it's possible to be, but even she was unnerved. She stood for a few seconds, wondering whether she should get on the 'phone to social services, or whether she should try to subdue me herself, and then made up her mind to confront the madwoman at the ironing board. I had been singing along quite happily to my ipod, locked into my own little musical world and was oblivious to everything around me. It was the dead-pan delivery of the lyrics that Linda had found so alarming, and for all she knew I had lost the power of speech and was resorting to woofing my greetings. She took some convincing that I hadn't gone barking mad, but eventually agreed to put down the can of mace and have a cup of tea.

Things got a bit scarier later on, when I went to my first kick-boxing class. I've never been one for aerobics; my sister had a Jane Fonda exercise video in the Eighties, and I could never understand why she was happy to stand in front of the television and take orders from a smiley-faced sadist dressed in wholly inappropriate leisure wear. Those leotards were nasty; they didn't shout 'healthy lifestyle', they screamed, 'yeast infection!' You wouldn't catch me climbing into one of those things for love nor money, so I sat on the sofa and let my sister go for the burn. I didn't want a sweaty crutch or a pulled hamstring, what I wanted was a quiet life, a nice cup of tea and a sticky bun.

As the years passed lycra replaced nylon, the leotard became passé and Jane Fonda finally succumbed to the ravages of time. Sadly for us, a plastic surgeon took away all the wrinkly bits, but if you look closely at Jane's handbag you can still see the laughter lines.

Kick-boxing isn't like an exercise class, it more like an hour-long excuse to beat up total strangers. I like to think I'm fit, but last night I found out that I'm not. I could probably win a running race against Judy Finnagan, but in the mother's race at the school sports day I'd probably have to resort to a sly elbow or a dose of Ketamine in the orange squash. However, what I lack in stamina I make up for in speed. I used to fence at college, and parry and thrust transpose very nicely into block and jab. Years of working as a camera assistant and later as a sound recordist have given me enough strength in my arms and shoulders to happily pummel away at the protective pads of my partner for as long as it takes; but it's not just the boxing, it's the kicking and kneeing that take their toll. I hit the wall quite early on, and then I hit a shoulder and then knocked my friend's glasses off. Suki had only seen me at work, she asked me to try out the class and even though she knows I'm a bit scary, I don't think she was fully prepared for the alarming effect that donning a pair of boxing gloves had upon me. As the session went on I got more and more confident, which was, not surprisingly, quite unnerving for Suki and the other members of the class. I am known for giving my all in whatever I do, and it seemed that having a face like a beetroot and being close to collapse were no deterrent to my desire to expunge six years of pent-up rage. I have a lot of issues, and I don't think the weedy guy in the glasses was totally prepared to see me addressing them in quite such a violent and frightening way. It was only a pretend 'tap' fight, and nobody actually got hit, but I wanted him to come back at me and he didn't. His lame passivity only had the effect of making me more determined to get my jab through his non-existent defence. The cowardly lion couldn't have been more cowardly and if that young man had come to the class to get some useful tips on self-defence I would suggest that running away might be a good place to start.

I have wanted to try kick-boxing ever since it was featured in an episode of 'Sex ,and the City', and having enjoyed my first session I'm eager to go again. I'm always telling widows that they need to get the rage and hurt and anger out of them, and I have to say that kick-boxing is a perfect way to do it. I'm not about to get into a boxing ring anytime soon, because that wouldn't be seemly for a woman of my delicate sensibilities, but in the safety and comfort of an exercise studio I can happily sock it to anybody with impunity.

Today, as I type these words I'm feeling a bit stiff and sore - but in a nice way. I can't walk properly, my calf muscles are too tight to allow anything except slow hobbling, so I think it's time to put my feet up and have a nice cup of tea and a chocolate éclair - who says violence doesn't pay?


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