Strolling with a cheerful purpose up Tottenham Court Road I was slowed by a trio of boisterous, err, chavs, for want of a better word. The vocal threesome were laughing loudly - and obviously - at the girl in front of them, deeming her legs to be 'too large' for her jeggings. As I overtook them I cast them a derogatory glance for their cruelty. At the same time, I selfishly felt relieved that at least I wasn't wearing anything vaguely controversial that they could use to make fun of me. Then I remembered. Yes, I remembered that for the first time I had been brave enough to wear my rather garish bright blue tights today. Five seconds after I overtook them the inevitable happened, and they started a tuneful rendition of 'Blue Moon'. I had to laugh.

Some interesting debates going on today about the Chris Grayling B&B story. As reported in The Observer yesterday, the shadow Home Secretary was secretly recorded saying he believed that people who run B&Bs should have the right to turn away homosexual couples. The fact is that it's against the law for ANY business to discriminate. If the Tories want this law to change then they should come out (for want of a better phrase) publicly and say so. But Cameron has stayed very quiet since the recording was made public. What that means I don't know, but the issue has definitely touched a nerve with absolutely everyone, one way or the other, so the Conservative Party should make their stance official.

I'm no stranger to embarrassment. In fact, so many embarrassing things have happened to me that I think I'm almost immune to the familiar feeling of self-conscious shame. My blush-inducing repertoire goes right back to my childhood, but one of my most cringeworthy public shamings was in my awkward teenage years.

Every year my secondary school would have a PE awards ceremony, with an entire double period dedicated to recognising the sporting achievements of each year group. The fastest sprinters, the highest jumpers and the top goal scorers were all presented with shiny statuettes which they proudly paraded at school for the rest of the day and took home that evening where it undoubtedly took pride of place on the family mantelpiece for the next 12 months.

But there was one award that nobody wanted. The Effort Award. I can see what my school was trying to do with this particular accolade; to recognise the consistent endeavours of a pupil who tried hard, in order to send out the message to everyone else that winning isn't everything:

"Look, kids! You can still be a winner even if you don't cross the finish line first! All you have to do in life is try your hardest!!!"

It goes without saying that, sadly, the award definitely did not carry with it this well-meaning sentiment. The 'winner' of this award was labelled a clumsy loser, who - despite unashamedly trying hard - was basically rubbish at sport.

I think you know where this story is going but I shall persist with my tale, as my trying spirit is obviously still intact.

I remember the day vividly. Year 9. I was 14. Walking to the school hall with my gaggle of girly friends, sniggering about who was going to be the unlucky beneficiary of the Effort Award this year. Feeling a bit excited because this year the Year 10s were in the same ceremony and we'd be able to nose at how the older girls had done their hair and try and catch the eyes of the older boys. The Effort Award was always the last award to be presented. The teachers seemed to somehow think it was a special award that deserved a big build up. For some reason as the moment approached I got a sick feeling in my stomach, as if I knew what was to come. You see, I really enjoyed PE. I was a competitive soul in team and individual activities, and no matter how much I hated running long distances I always had a sprint finish in me. But I never came first, always second or third, much to my annoyance.

My PE teacher started to explain why this yet-to-be-named Year 9 had been selected for this year's honour. The word 'she' prompted all the Year 9 boys to breathe a sigh of relief. I could feel the tension building and, gradually, as the kind words continued to be spoken people slowly turned to look at me. They knew. I sodding knew.

"And this year, I am delighted to announce that the PE Effort Award goes to HAYLEY DUNLOP!"

Oh. My God. Please swallow me now, I pleaded with the ground. I somehow made my way up on to the stage (yes, a blimin' STAGE!), grabbed the statuette from the hands of my beaming PE teacher and ran back to my seat as quickly as possible. I had never been so embarrassed and I had never been so red in the face.

When I got home that night the trophy didn't go on the mantelpiece because I was too ashamed of it. It stayed in the cupboard in the study for the next year until I had to take it back into school ready for the next unlucky recipient.

But, looking back, I now realise that I should have been proud of winning that award. I can't remember specifically what the teacher said before she announced my name because the noise of the blood rushing to my face seemed to drown lots of it out, but I can remember that she said that the winner was a team player with a strong competitive spirit. In hindsight I think my teacher felt I deserved to win something because of the, well, effort I put into everything. I won that award for all the right reasons, but I couldn't see that at the time. I'm not sure many 14-year-olds could. But now I feel I should finally embrace my Effort Accolade, so thank you, Teacher, for that award. The embarrassment gave me a realistic taste of what life would throw at me and helped to thicken my skin. And thank goodness for thick skin.

E-mail from the National Lottery: "We have some exciting news about the ticket that you bought for the Friday 05 February draw. Please click here and and enter your username and password to view the details online now."

I hovered my finger over the word 'here' on my shiny new iPhone. But suddenly I stopped myself from tapping the tempting hyperlink. I was on a train. What if I'd won the ACTUAL £113 million Euromillions jackpot?? I simply wouldn't be able to contain my hysteria if I'd won squillions of quid. So I didn't tap the hyperlink. I put my iPhone away and got lost in my thoughts for the remainder of the journey.

I could pay off my mortgage, I thought to myself. I could pay for all of my cousins to go through university. I could buy my parents the country home of their dreams, and a funky pad in London so they could come and hang out with me whenever they wanted. I could BUY BRISTOL ROVERS!! I could give loads away to charity. I could buy a loft apartment in New York and a place big enough in London to house a drum kit. And a recording studio! I could get Teletext up and running again for my Grampy, even if it was only in his home. I could give life-changing amounts of money to all of my family and closest friends.

I walked home from the train station a little faster than normal, my keys poised in my hands a long time before I got to my front door. Switched on laptop. Logged into Lottery account.

"Congratulations - you've won £19.50!"

And you know what? I felt strangely relieved.

Thanks to becksldrt for flagging up The Mayfly Project which she discovered on Meg Pickard's blog. The Mayfly Project is this:

At the end of every year since 2000, we invite readers to look back on the last twelve months of their lives and reflect on what has been important, defining or constant during that particular year, and then sum their year up in just 24 words.

I know it's a little late, but here's my 2009 in 24 words:

Career steps up. Nervous 'VIP', but confidence grows. Night, Nan. Blushes, but laughter always follows. Drums and Glastonbury. Punbreak my heart, Twitter. Goodbye Granny.

Overheard today in a shop...a husband desperately trying to find the matching shoe of a pair that his wife wanted in the sales. He couldn't find it anywhere on the shelves, or under the mountain of discarded bargains. "One of life's great mysteries," he proclaimed with a grin on his face. For some reason this made me chuckle. I think because usually shopping in the sales can be quite a stressful experience, especially for chaps who have been dragged there by their other halves, but this fellow definitely had a nice attitude about it all.

A few weeks ago, shopping / blogging queen India Knight flagged up this amazing handbag from Marks and Spencer. I wanted it, but at £79 it was a tad expensive. So imagine my joy today when, whilst shopping in the Bristol sales with my mum, she managed to find the last remaining bag in the colour I wanted, a bargain at £39! Go mum!