The mean streets of Melton Mowbray

I spent last weekend in Nottinghamshire, or Leicestershire, or possibly both. I am not sure of the exact location, as I never listened properly in Geography lessons and therefore cannot read a map. In addition, I do not possess any form of sat nav. I would marry any manner of felon if his wedding gift to me was a TomTom, but even then I fear I would be unable to programme it. In short, I am ill equipped for the new millennium, as I need to be shown how to do the simplest technological task.

I was with my daughter and also the Nymphomaniacs, a group of women who, like me, were all diagnosed with breast cancer in 2008. Actually we are not called the Nymphomaniacs, although my Dad thinks we are (bless him) - we are the Lymphomaniacs. We were doing a charity event to raise money for a Maggie's cancer support centre in Nottingham.

On Saturday night we stayed at Scalford Hall, a pleasant hotel in scenic grounds. As we went up to our room Martha whispered to me that it was "very posh". I agreed with her that it was, indeed, posh. Upon entering the room Martha ran to the ensuite bathroom to check the free toiletries. "Molton Brown!" she hissed. "Nick them." She then sought out the tea and coffee making facilities, which were in a drawer. "Biscuits!" she told me, then asked anxiously, "If we don't eat them are we allowed to take them home?" I said yes and she said, "It's you who's taught me to rob." I ignored this unjust portrayal of me as a maternal Fagin figure, mainly from relief that she had not said it in the hotel lobby. I can now reveal that we have in our possession a 2-pack of "Bronte" choc chip biscuits, included in the room price I might add.

We went to ask at Reception if there was anywhere local we could eat. The woman told us not to go into town, "not on a Saturday night" she said, shuddering at the thought - and gave us directions to a nearby village where there was a pub. "Don't go ito town though, not on a Saturday night", she repeated.

When we reached the village pub it was 9 pm and they had stopped serving meals. We were in a dilemma. On the one hand we had been warned against "town" but on the other, we were all starving hungry. I decided to look at the map and work out which "town" we might be dealing with. Was it Nottingham? Leicester? Coventry? Would it be guns, dogs and drugs on every corner? I knew it couldn't be Moss Side or the Bronx - my geography isn't that bad - but it sounded very dodgy.

On further investigation "town" turned out to be Melton Mowbray. We decided to risk it. After all, Maggie lives near Peckham so she is very "street" and I live in Oldham, which only that week had shocked the nation when it was exposed on Panorama as a mecca for binge drinkers, a modern day Gin Lane.

In fact my ex, the posh one who told me the receipt for 450 Viagra I found on his bedroom floor was "a free sample", didn't want me to tell his well-heeled family that I came from Oldham. "Say Shaw" he used to urge, as though Shaw was well-known for its Twinings-drinking gentility.

With some trepidation we parked our cars in Melton Mowbray's main street and went in search of an Indian restaurant. I have to report that there were no drunks lying in the gutter, we witnessed no stabbings, there appeared to be tumbleweed blowing down the street, and when we eventually located the Spice Club restaurant, we were offered no drugs, just quietly served a very good meal. (Have noticed a strange phenomenon with Indian eateries. The further North you go, the hotter the curry. So a Leicester Madras is not as hot as an Oldham Madras which is not as hot as a Bradford Madras. I do hope Bradford is North of Oldham now I have typed this. But cannot be bothered to get Road Atlas from car to check.)

On the way back to the cars, young women were posing for photos on the bonnet of a police car. I passed a bouncer who was drinking a cup of tea, or it might even have been cocoa. I am not making this up. Our vehicles were undamaged. We had trodden the mean streets of Melton Mowbray ON A SATURDAY NIGHT and survived.

The next morning Maggie told me she had recently visited a friend in the country who had warned her not to visit Peasgood St John "because it's full of crack". I have no idea where Peasgood St John is but am fairly sure it isn't a crack den. I may visit there undercover, in one of my wigs and someone else's coat, and investigate.