Sure, it can be about as much fun as a day disco-blading with John Prescott, but it is exclusively us ladies who once a month have a full and free licence to the role of Psycho-Bitch. And then blame it all on our man - who dare not disagree in case he finds the inside of his PlayStation neatly filled with alternating layers of crushed garlic and cornflakes. Again. And we get to live off Maltesers, Cadbury's and Sherbet Dips for seven days in a row. Ho, ho.