I am reassured to read in the media that ‘The Average Britain keeps nine kinds of secrets,’. This goes some way to reducing the shame I sometimes feel at not unleashing some of my ‘little idiosyncrasies’ on my unsuspecting reader.

Stay with me: there is a research paper from the University of Melbourne and Columbia Business School which asked their data sample to categorise the sort of things that they keep to themselves from a choice of 38 categories, and then asked them to keep a tally of how often they thought about these ‘secrets’. I am a bit disappointed to read that my ‘secrets’ do not really fit neatly into the most voted for categories which were:

• Having lied
• Dissatisfaction with an aspect of physical appearance
• Financial secrets
• Romantic desires

As a unicorn and rainbow hunter I was hoping to bond over some joyful weirdness rather than to discover some shady behaviour around clandestine or criminal activity.

We know by now that I am an over-sharer and I realise that there is little that I have not said out loud to those who know me best. For example I have written at length about my need to hoard toilet rolls and my view that food tastes different when served from different ceramic options or eaten with different cutlery.

I realise however that I may never have told anyone that I have an urge to start throwing plates and fine crystal around when I walk through John Lewis’ China & Glass Department. I have such an urge that I often shove my hands deep into my pockets as I walk through this department – sometimes I even take a detour. It is not an aggressive whim; I would just like to experience the thrill of plate smashing without having to pay for any damage. So my secret is that I would like to act out my fantasy of being a bull in a china shop without being marched away by the security guard.

There you go. First secret out and it feels pretty painless. I should also note that it is not a vendetta against the John Lewis Partnership for I would happily produce this dramageddon in any department store if any others still exist. I also justify my whim by pointing out to my reader that plate smashing at Greek weddings originally signified joy and exuberance at starting afresh. I will discuss this with Favourite Daughter for we only have a fortnight in which to buy the extra crockery needed to unleash the happy couple’s inner joy during their Easter nuptials.

I decide that other people must have some joyful secrets to share – nothing shady, just something that might surprise us. I start asking around. Surprisingly I find that, rather than sharing some secret joy, people are only to ready to share some secret inner darkness.

At Boot Camp a fellow teacher offers, ‘Oh yes, my secret is that I would love to walk in to the staff room and swipe all the mugs off the shelves in one dramatic gesture.’ I love this, for it is very similar to my fantasy…until he finishes off with, ‘then I would turn to my gathering colleagues and shout, ‘and that will teach that frickin monster who keeps stealing my cup!’ I walk away and leave him to his darkness and some burpees, feeling secretly envious that his school still has a Staff Room.

I ask Himself the same question and he notes that he has probably never said out loud that he really, really does not like cats. He continues, ‘that ad we were watching last week for the Omoda 7 SUV (trust Himself to recall the exact make and model) – ‘it literally made my skin itch and my blood boil’. I try to remember which ad he is talking about and then recall one where the car’s name sounded like a cure for an upset stomach and featured dozens of fluffy white cats seen walking on the hood, sliding down the windshield and sitting on the bonnet. ‘I don’t care if the Ad Agency won plaudits for AI innovation,’ he vents, ‘the only way I would get behind the driving wheel of that vehicle would be to drive it quickly through that sea of allergic fluff to send their joyous catnip moment flying’. Point made. Apology to cat lovers – at least these white felines will have eight lives still to go, and himself still has eight secrets to declare.

From research among my friends I soon realise that some secrets are best kept silent because they are either way too dark or they offend others/get you arrested (you know who you are). I have been asking people all week about something they have kept secret – a super power, a talent, a whim but I have received little but darkness in return. I now look at those I love most in an unexpected way. The best publishable disclosures I receive are that one colleague is so short-sighted that she is an honorary member of only 1% of the population who may actually have eyes that are 4mm longer than the rest of us. She has hidden this super power well – not a beer goggle in sight. Another friend eventually admits that the only secret she is prepared to share is that if she is using double cream in a recipe, she often slugs a few slurps from the carton before returning it to the fridge (hope her husband is not reading; perhaps he secretly does the same for they share the cooking).

Out for a weekend run/cycle, Himself asks me how my blog research is going. I report back that it has not been a rich harvest and that perhaps I would have been better mining deeper into the four main categories from the university research – knowing about my friend’s financial and romantic proclivities may have been much more enlightening. I say that I would secretly like to do more day time drinking but that the average school day does not really offer much capacity. At least I have my daughter’s wedding weekend during which to test out my yen.

‘Have you told your reader about your obsession with having a large domestic reserve of toilet rolls?’ he asks. I tell him that I have covered this obsession many times in my blog across the years but that I may not yet have shared that I find it funny to write little messages on the toilet roll if it is looking like a new supply is needed – hilarious little gobbets like, ‘looks like a roll over week,’ or ‘piece be with you’. Another secret out. Six to go.

‘Perhaps you could share that you and I differ in how we believe a toilet roll should be hung?’

‘What do you mean? Since we have been ‘walking out’ I have made a huge effort to hang the toilet roll in your preferred style. You pointed out early on in our relationship (after I had shared my fear of being in a house without a reserve toilet roll) that you come from a long line of toilet roll holders who believe that mullet is good, beard is bad’.

Himself falls off his bike laughing.

‘That explains everything,’ he says. ‘I am constantly switching the toilet roll around because I decreed that mullet is bad, and beard is good. I didn’t like to say’

‘But I have been secretly switching the rolls back, believing that they would have caused you sartorial irritation. An Andrex puppy would have caused less chaos and would have left your car alone’

I jog off, pained that my hidden efforts have not had their desired effect but notching up my tally of secrets to five. Himself could have just shared his secret visualisation for toilet roll hanging much earlier on and then our love language could have stayed on track. Back in the day my father just insisted that we always had spare toilet rolls in the house/suitcase/car boot and this is my well published legacy; he did not publish an edict about how surplus toilet rolls should be hung. I would also protest that my family would not have recognised a mullet if they ever saw one – pudding bowl or crew cut perhaps – but neither would have offered a helpful steer in the direction of bathroom elegance. Besides, my mother held no secret about her view on facial hair. ‘Never trust a man with a beard,’ she would say, they always have something to hide.’ I may out this as my sixth secret as I profess that I am not a beard lover.

Cat lovers/Omoda owners/beardies I am starting to wish that I had kept this blog to myself. It transpires that I am not even secretly average; my tally of secrets stays at six. I need to work on some secrecy before I can come back with the final hat trick. Apologies.