YOU are all a bunch of thieves and vagabonds! And I like you all the more for it.

Since revealing my friend's dilemma over an accidental double helping of Wii, I have been witness to all manner of fascinating confessions.

But before I get to that, just let me clear up one thing once and for all. It wasn't me who flogged the extra Wii delivered by mistake in the postal hoohah over Christmas.

I know some of you think I have been using "my friend" as an unconvincing ruse to cover my own tracks, but, honest to God, I don't even own one Wii, never mind two. My friend hasn't even let me have a play on his, partly because he's a meanie and partly because he's scared I'll beat him at tenpin bowling (hello Nigel, yes I'm writing about you again).

If I'm honest, which the Wii debate has proved that I'm patently not, I didn't think last week's column would cause much of a ruckus.

It was just something that stirred my thoughts, and I suspected might stick a spoon in your brain box too.

At best, I thought it might stimulate a little light conversation at dinner parties. Well, at least talking complete Wii after three bottles of wine and a gallon of Baileys is one up on the usual after-dinner banter.

What I didn't expect, however, was the avalanche of confessions.

A chap at work told me he had been receiving a free monthly copy of Marie Claire for the past year which was obviously actually destined for a neighbour but had been mislabelled.

A mum at gymnastics club (our daughters do the tipple overs, we drink the coffee) spilled the beans on an incident involving a rather nice bracelet that mysteriously turned up in her delivery of kids' T-shirts and then equally mysteriously turned up around her wrist.

And a teacher at my kids' school revealed in a series of conspiratorial whispers that she had kept a quilted "cosy toes" cover that had been delivered with her new buggy by mistake (it had been delivered by mistake; she kept it on purpose).

She could simply have popped it back in the post of course, but then that would have left her baby with ten freezing little piggies. And anyway, it was nicer than the ones she'd seen in the shops.

These are just three of the many shameful confessions that have come my way this week; the tip of the criminal iceberg.

We should all be thoroughly ashamed of ourselves. But, frankly, that's a complete waste of time. Especially when we could be on the internet ordering loads more stuff in the hope that a bored teenager in a warehouse somewhere accidentally chucks a diamond necklace in with our next delivery.


* Does everyone talk to themselves, or is it just me and weird old women at bus stops?

I had assumed that everyone had a little mutter to themselves every now and again, but now I'm not so sure. Maybe it really is just me and the rest of you are too polite to tell me to button it.

I was stalking down the corridor at work the other day having a good old chunter to myself about the girl who runs a cafe I use, and her delightful habit of cleaning her nails with the nearest piece of cutlery to hand (usually the knife she is about to cut my panini with, or the fork for my salad), when I saw my boss storming in the opposite direction ranting away and gesturing wildly.

"I'm glad it's not just me who talks to myself," I said, grinning like a demented clown and punching him playfully on the arm.

He was, of course, on his hands-free, headset phone talking to his boss about the budget.

I could be going out on a limb here, but I suspect he might now be considering a little cost-cutting in the writing department.