Can you really burst with excitement?

Tomorrow I am going to Birmingham for MPH 06. For those that don't know, this live theatre celebration of cars is, essentially, a glorified Top Gear. Live games and stunts in the show and afterwards a chance to see and photograph all those glorious cars. This year it was scheduled to be hosted by all 3 presenters; but, of course, due to his accident the Hamster is replaced by Tiff Needell. Never mind, it should still be amazing.

But I can't believe how excited I am. I have been boring friends to death with the topic. I have my timetable sorted, to make the most of the day – up at 6:00 am, on the road at 7:15am. And, for the first time since I can't remember when, I am having a girly crisis about what to wear.

It's important, you see, to give out the right signals. I am neither executive (OMG, how I hate bland, over-swish, executive cars) nor yet am I a girl about town – having grown far too old for that category. I don't really count as a petrolhead (although I'm heading that way) and I'm most certainly not a moneyed bimbo, who only wants a supercar to provide some personality.

So all week I've been wondering what to wear, but I think I'm sorted now in a new pair of black, bootcut trousers and a purple batwing top, to hide the damage too much excess weight and too many years have done to my upper arms. I've just emptied and repacked my handbag to make sure that I haven't forgotten my ticket or camera. I'm about to clean and polish my boots.

It feels like the night before Christmas when you're about 3 or 4. My heart's in my mouth; I can't sit still. There's a concert tonight, Wakeman and Anderson, and I know I'll enjoy it but I just can't wait for it to be over. I just know I'm going to burst before I get there.

And, of course, we all know about the post Christmas let-downs ...