Guilty Secret

Is it wrong to enjoy reading Heat magazine?

You see, I've never felt guilty about masturbation, eating chocolate or wishing people dead. But there's something about reaching for my weekly Heat mag that makes me draw the curtains and check the doors are locked first.

Heat embodies everything I hate - sad, silly celebrities with their tits out, or sob stories about public arena relationships that all went horribly wrong. Yet something I'm not in control of drags me to the shelf every week, where I shove it at the bottom of my shopping basket and cover it with salad ingredients and wine.

In the security of home, having checked under the bed for intruders, I then withdraw it and become insanely fascinated by pictures of the Coronation Street cast on a night out. I find myself partaking in the tests to figure out who has real and who has fake boobs. (Boobs! I HATE the word boobs!!!)

So what is wrong with me? Should I adopt a course of therapy or just accept this embarrassing aspect of my personality? Is there a cure?

Oh I don't know, I've said too much already. I'm off to learn about Kerry Catona and life after Brian ...