Tomorrow is the day I should have become famous.

Not quite Kate Winslet or Victoria Beckham famous, but famous as in: "Hey! Didn't we see you on the telly on Thursday?"

And, had things gone to plan, you would have, but they didn't - so here I am, my invitation to celebrity not merely postponed but cancelled.

According to Andy Warhol, we can all look forward to an average of 15 minutes in the spotlight during our lives.

If so, I reckoned my turn should be coming soon, until a couple of weeks before Christmas, when I had a call from the offices of a television company (no names but it wasn't the Beeb).

Would I like to come along to the studios during the January sales period and appear on an afternoon chat show to talk about my prowess as a bargain hunter? I was asked.

Some of you may remember a previous column I wrote, about the pleasure I take in being a cheapskate, so I assumed the TV bods wanted to promote me as Brighton's own Queen of Mean (move over Anne Robinson).

I could have been subtle, I could have played hard to get, I could have pretended to check my appointment book - no, of course I haven't got one - I could even have said: "How much?"

I did nothing of the sort. Instead, confident that I could chat for England - I'm never lost for words, even the wrong ones - and lured by fame, if not fortune, I agreed. Immediately.

Then I sat and practised signing my autograph and wondering how much I could charge for opening supermarkets.

The next day I started to worry. As one of those people who knows every cloud has an even darker lining, I worried about the bags under my eyes, appearing fat on screen (the cameras, I'm told, add at least 10lb) and what I should wear to help me appear younger.

It almost drove me to drink. In fact, it did drive me to drink.

"How long have you got?" a friend asked as we sat in the pub discussing strategy.

I told her I had about a month before I appeared on the small screen.

Time enough, she said, to lose some weight and banish the bags under my eyes.

She advocated a fruit and veggies only diet, drinking two litres of water a day and being in bed by 10pm. Christmas excesses were restricted to one day instead of the usual two weeks plus.

I didn't mind - well, not too much - if it meant I had cheekbones again and just one chin by January 10, 2002.

I'd been behaving myself for less than a week when there was another phone call. My TV appearance was still on - sort of. But now, rather than actually appearing on screen, it had been decided that only my voice would be heard.

I was to take part in a phone interview instead.

I tell you, that did nothing whatsoever for my morale but it did mean I was given the green light for the customary Christmas pig-out.

A few days later there was another phone call to say that the time allowed for me to chat had been cut down to one and a half minutes.

Eventually, just before Christmas, my prospects of fame fizzled out altogether.

The show was cancelled. My TV career was to be switched off before it had even been switched on.

So here I am, still waiting for my 15 minutes in the spotlight. I'm afraid fame no longer seems to be beckoning.

Instead, it now appears to be making a rather different gesture ...