In which I prematurely age.

For the last month or so my knee has been playing up. It aches a lot of the time and nearly killed me when I went to the cinema by sending jabbing pains along my leg as a protest against being folded accordian style into the tiny cinema seats. It even wakes me up in the morning by aching as it lies in bed. Now, I've always liked the idea of going weak at the knees. There's something old fashioned and bizarrely romantic about it. It turns out that it falls into the same category as swooning, having the vapours and lying on a chaise longue. They are all highly overrated and rather painful.

I have assumed that my weak knees are a result of endless driving, foolishly going running in the summer and more endless driving but today the farmer, passing by on his quad bike, looked at my jean clad knee in a knowing way (ooh er missus) and muttered darkly that it sounded like arthritis. ARTHRITIS? Please, tell me he is kidding.

I can't have arthritis. Old people have arthritis. I'm 36. I know I live in a damp cottage that should be wrung out like a sponge but I'm not ready to decay quite yet. Please don't tell me that this is the beginning of the end.

I've booked an appointment with a physiotherapist tomorrow and I'm hoping that he will be a) Dr McDreamy / George Clooney b) single (only applies if option a is true) c) give me a magic pill that will instantly fix tiresome knee and also turn me into a size 10 goddess with a perfect wardrobe. Physiotherapists can do that can't they?