Hey h o So here we go for the last time. No really, this is it. For 10 years I have sat down on a Monday morning and written this column – 52 weeks a year without exception. No high days, no holidays, no Xmas Day, Boxing Day or birthdays off. Of course by Sunday I can’t remember what I’ve written so, propped up with a head like a bag of bolts and a face like a crumpled bag, I read it when it is delivered, sometimes Clip on charms cringing, o f te n h i di ng i t fr om my h usb and. I hav e w ri tte n i t in bed, at desks, in cafes, hotels, on stranger’s laptops and with the help of ye olde fax machine in the UK, Spain, London and the USA.

During this time my son grew from a podgy Primar y 1 boy to battling the hormonal highs and lows of his teenage years. All covered candidly on this page.

I’ve had highs and lows of body weight, mood and, of course, times when life’s walloped me so hard I fell over and didn’t think I would ever get up. But I did. And in no smal l w ay, th a nks to y ou. Letters, cards, comments in bars, incongruous conversations with readers in lifts, bars, supermarkets, airports, the Western Isles, more bars, Glasgow, Banchory, Dumfries, Spain, London. Youngsters, middle-aged and older folk and men. It seems the hairier sex can’t resist a wee look when their wives say ‘God I know exactly what she means’ as we share the universal joy of living with the lesser-spotted, often annoying Scots male.

Dave, my long-suffering husband, has had the peshwari ripped out of him for his snoring, dress sense, habits and for just being a typical curry-eating, wine-gargling, slightly further back down the foodchain Scotsman. Many a ti m e h e h a s t ur ned to m e af te r I have done something appalling and said ‘God I wish I had a column’ and I thank the Lord he doesn’t. He too has mixe d feelings about the column coming to an end – mainly lingerie wholesale joy. Everywhere I go people ask about Dynamite. I’m happy to say she is here riding shotgun, my dear pal who has stood by me through thick and thin – that refers to the size of my body and the state of my life. A better cheeky wee boozy pal you could never wish for.

There have been world-changing days. Awful days. 9/11, The Tsunami, Haiti… There has been humiliation such as the New Year’s eve live broadcast when I stood like a lemon on a rooftop in Edinburgh as the entire TV programme blew away round me but, as my dad always said, ‘You live a long time af ter you’re laug h ed a t’.

If th a t’s tr ue I s hould make it to 250. It all started when I presented a chat show on STV and the then Sunday Mail editor Allan Rennie asked me if I would like to write a column. ‘Me? God, I don’t think I can do that’. ‘Och, give it a shot,’ he said. Ten years on here I am. The column changed from being about celebs to life in Scotland with a bloke, a kid, two mutts and a de ep love of crisps, chocolate and wine. The paper’s support spurred me on to write a best-selling book, The Nappy Years. I’m forever grateful as I hurtle into 2010 with two novels in the pipeline LV wallets.

The response over the years has been heartwarming.

The hardest day, not only in the past 10 years but in my life, was the day in May 2008 when I lost my dear Dad. I was bowled over by the hundreds of messages, cards and letters you took the time to write. Each one brought me a genuine feeling of comfor t and of not being alone. It’s dawned on me that’s exactly what this column is about – unplanned and unexpected you, me and that hairy fool over there, we are all the same. Warts and all. That feeling we all suffer from the human conditi damier canvas.