One of my favourite books of all time is Stella Gibbons' wonderful Cold Comfort Farm, which follows the adventures of the very determined Flora and her wondrously wild and woolly Starkadder relations on said property.

One of the ways in which Grandmother Starkadder keeps a tight rein on the household (and tight hold of the pursestrings) is by being - well, slightly mad - and her frequent pronouncement that as a gel, she saw 'something NASTY in the woodshed'. Or the cowshed. Or the bikeshed. What this was, or whether there even was a shed, is unimportant. The thing is, she saw it, and by God it was nasty.

After what I saw in my fridge tonight, my heart goes out to old mad Granny Starkadder. Because if what she even imagined she saw was half as nasty as the possible Teenage Mutant Ninja Turkey that had evolved out of a free range chicken breast I was stoopid enough to leave behind while I went away for a few days, then she was right to go totally doolally.

I think it possibly gave Ripley's friend a run for her money. This thing was looking as though it would like to spawn out of my stomach.

So I am eternally grateful to the lovely Christine, who smartly suggested leaving the beast's memory where it belonged - in the outside garbage - and with a lighter heart, and a few battle scars (and a freshly sterile fridge), I trotted off to see Les Misérables.

Where I proceeded to bawl my eyes out at regular intervals.

I am a sucker for musicals. And Tom Hooper's interpretation of this one is an absolute ripsnorter. Redemption, revolution, tubercular prostitutes - how can you go wrong really? Even Russell Crowe brings his game voice - and manages to inject a bit of humanity into old Javert. And as for young Eddie Redmayne - le yum.

So gratitude in a roundabout way, as a scary encounter with my fridge with fangs ended up with me singing Jean Valjean's greatest hits all the way home.

Now I just need to be able to turn the light off tonight.

Last night I didn't even bother.