BACK a few months ago I was hosting an awards evening in the Forest of Dean. It was a hugely successful event, despite the storm warning which was issued a few hours before it started, which saw half the audience receiving emergency alerts on their phones at regular internals through the night.

As the event wound down to a close I glanced down at my hands only to discover to my shock that my fingers had turned purple! Sitting down quietly in a corner I surreptitiously checked my pulse convinced that I was about to have a heart attack, but in true Welsh fashion, unwilling to do it anywhere it might case a kerfuffle.

With everything on the pulse and blood pressure fronts looking solid I put my many years of hypochondria into action and started to work my way through all the alternative in an effort to discover what was wrong with me.

The task consumed me until I went to the loo, washed my hands and realised the purple tinge has lessened considerably. After several more washes over the course of a few hours my fingers and nails were back to normal and I realised that rather than a dicky ticker the cause of my problem had been the dye leaching out of the pockets of the ‘smart’ trousers The Mother had insisted I wore for the night.

I’d almost forgotten about the incident until this Saturday when I was compering the A4B awards presentation night in Abergavenny and I suddenly realised half way through dinner my hands had once again taken on a purple hue.

After a quick check that my pulse was as normal as can be expected for a theatre critic just about to stand up before an audience of performers I held my hands aloft, much to the shock of everyone at the table.

Despite some concern that I look as if I hadn’t washed for a week, it suddenly occurred to me that my purple digits could give me a perfect excuse if the theatrical crowd turned ugly or the PowerPoint did what it usually does if I’m involved.

“If it all starts to go horribly wrong I’ll just clutch my chest and keel over,” I whispered to the housemate.

“People will take one look at my purple hands and assume the worst. You’ll just have to step in and offer to drive me to hospital,” I added

“How can I do that. I can’t drive,” she hissed back.

“Well get The Mother to do it,” I replied realising that the time to start the presentations had almost arrived.

“You know it won’t work,” chipped in the friend.

“It might. I’m not a bad actor,” I replied defensively.

“The jury is out on that…I still remember your Mrs Cratchit from a Welcome to Christmas concert a few years back,” she replied rolling her eyes

“But it’s not only that…there’s a doctor in the audience and she’ll see through you straight away, so you may as well just get on with it!”

“Anyway this lot are all local actors…they’ll never believe you could have a heart attack…they all know you haven’t got one!”