As vices go, mine is (and please note the use of the singular rather than the plural) in a very minor league. It's hardly a vice at all, but it's all I've got.

I know it won't get me shunned by right thinking society or anything like that but it's still something I don't discuss, even with friends who have known me for years.

Which is why, when one of the latter called me at the weekend and invited me out for lunch on Monday - it being a public holiday for most if not all of us - I became somewhat flustered, as you do when you've got something to hide.

"I can't," I said hurriedly. "I've got something else planned."

"Well it's not going to take all day is it?" he asked. "And what exactly is it you've got planned?"

I should have told him to mind his own business - or, more forcibly, to butt out. But I didn't.

"I'm going to a fair," I said.

"You don't like fairs," he replied.

"This isn't a dodgems and roundabouts fair," I said. "It's at one of the hotels on the seafront, it's a collectors' fair."

"I didn't know you were a collector," he said. "What do you collect? Stamps? Antique clocks? Old Masters?"

"Beanie Babies," I mumbled.

That had him stumped. "But they're little soft toys for kids," he said. "How long have you been doing it?"

Time to come clean, I thought, confession is good for the soul. "I started about four years ago," I said. "I keep meaning to give it up but the longer I've been doing it the harder it gets. Now I'm completely hooked.

"I keep saying this will definitely be the last time, this will definitely be the very last Beanie Baby I buy . . . and then a new one comes out and I can't resist, I've got to have it."

"I'll come to the fair with you, keep an eye on you," said my friend, obviously with my welfare at heart.

"No," I said. "You wouldn't like it, it can get pretty stressful in there, especially if there's a rare Beanie up for grabs and everybody wants it."

"But the others, they're only little kids," said my friend. Little kids?" I said.

"How wrong can you be. It's Big Adults, often middle-aged men with stubble and tattoos, who are the serious Beanie collectors.

"That's because there's Big Money involved -- some of those Beanies go for hundreds, thousands, of pounds."

"Okay," said my friend. "I'll meet you outside then, at half past twelve. Be there or I'll be coming in to get you."

So, I was there, of course, at 12.30pm on Monday, standing outside a Brighton hotel trying to look calm and detached rather than quivering with excitement.

"How was your self control?" asked my friend. "How many did you buy?"

"Just one," I replied. If I'd been honest I would have said: "Just one or two -- oh, to hell with it, let's call it three, no, four it is."

But I didn't and the urge is as strong as ever. Help! I'm in a bad way.

Anybody know if you can get Beanie Babies aversion therapy on the NHS?

On second thoughts, forget it. I've only one vice and I intend to enjoy it.