I BLAME Mary Berry. The octogenarian cook's recent "revelation" that she has never ordered a takeaway pizza has led to national shock and horror - with, of course, inevitable comments about people who don't live "in the real world".

Poor Mary added insult to injury when, having made her own on-screen version of a takeaway pizza, she proceeded to eat it with a knife and fork, rather than picking it up in her mitts, throwing her head back and aiming vaguely for her mouth, which is obviously the correct way to ingest a pizza.

Ms Berry's lack of pizza experience has provoked a fascinating debate in the newspapers and of course on social media, with people wading into "pizzagate" - and it has now become an analysis of all the things people in Britain 2017 have never done: top of the list being watched Game of Thrones (I am among the never-haves on this one).

In days gone by, the old adage attributed to conductor Sir Thomas Beecham (of the Beecham powders family) was "I'll try anything once - apart from incest and Morris dancing".

These days, we've become far less adventurous than Sir Thomas, with the list of things modern people have never tried now seemingly endless. Perhap that's because there's just so much more stuff to do than there was in Sir Thomas's day, although as he was around (just) in the Swinging Sixties, that's quite difficult to believe.

Compiling a list of the things one has never done can be rather dispiriting - especially at a certain age - and I can understand why people prefer to create so-called bucket lists of things they intend to experience/achieve before they kick said bucket.

I'm not, however, a fan of bucket lists - they all seem to be so staggeringly unoriginal, invariably involving such cliches as swimming with dolphins, sky-diving, getting tattoos in inappropriate places (like Blackpool), seeing the Northern Lights and trekking to Machu Piccu.

Maybe, therefore, in this age of easy accessibility to so many things, it's better indeed to celebrate our great non-achievements and missed experiences.

If my memory serves me correctly, I'm with Mary Berry on the never having ordered a takeaway pizza front. Oh, I've partaken of other people's takeaway Hawaiians, but rung up, ordered and had one delivered to my own front door? No. Mainly because no pizza takeaways that I know of operate a delivery service to Askam.

Game of Thrones not watched? Tick. The only Jon Snow I know of is the Channel 4 News one with the loud ties. Nor have I watched Breaking Bad, anything on Netflix, or anything involving Jeremy Clarkson, Richard Hammond and cars.

Sheeps' eyes eaten: nil. Charity parachute jumps undertaken: zero. I've never been to the Grand National - I don't possess any hooker heels, tattoos, too-short dresses, hair extensions or an orange face, so I would stick out like a sore thumb. I've never sent a tweet, posted a selfie on social media (or, indeed, taken a selfie - because I guess I just don't love myself enough) or felt the need to inform fellow Facebook users what I am about to eat or drink, or post irritatingly-cryptic notes about what a bad day I am having.

I've never been to a football or rugby match. I've never eaten snail porridge in a Heston Blumenthal restaurant (or indeeed set foot in one of his gaffs). I've never flown in a private jet. I've never worn hot pants (tartan-inset Bay City Roller-style flares being my sartorial limit). I've never been divorced, although I suppose there's still time - and if I suddenly decide to start wearing hot pants, no divorce judge on earth would blame my husband for bailing out of the marriage.

I've never spent the night in a cell (even my attempt to do so for charity ended in rejection) and I've never taken part in a television quiz show - even though I would absolutely love to go on Pointless because a) I'd be dead good at it and b) reading the above, it is clearly a metaphor for my life.

Maybe those bucket lists aren't such a bad idea after all - at least they give one something to aim for. How much are flights to Peru these days?

MY mother was an inveterate sender of cards for all occasions; and many an hour was spent with her, (im)patiently waiting while she pored over myriad cards for exam success, wedding anniversaries, driving test passes and, of course, birthdays and Christmas.

She also sent cards for St Patrick's Day and Easter - and I thought she was daft to do so. But it seems Mum was ahead of the game, for Easter is now the new Christmas, and sales of Easter cards, Easter decorations and Easter crackers (yes, really) are soaring - and retailers are rubbing their hands in glee.

Easter cracker sales have risen by 63 per cent (although presumably from a very, very low base), as supermarkets cotton on to the trend which is seeing Easter become Christmas 2.0.

A newspaper correspondent this week informed us that supermarket chain Booths is flogging something bizarrely called an Easter Stollen cake. It's bad enough that Cadbury's mini eggs are on the shelves by Boxing Day, but turning Easter into another needlessly expensive and commercialised version of Christmas is just bonkers.

If Jesus hadn't risen from his grave after three days, he'd be turning in it.

GOOD luck to ex-chancellor George Osborne in his new, part-time role as editor of the London Evening Standard, an appointment which has caused uproar in Westminster and among the chattering classes - and no doubt among his constituents of Tatton, who must be wondering when the heck he will find time to see to their needs.

Now, I'm all for MPs having outside interests which give them a sense of perspective outside the Westminster bubble. Career politicians with no experience of the wider world should be very much in a minority in parliament.

But Six Jobs Osborne is taking this to the extreme. While trousering £650,000 for a few days a month as a consultant to an asset management firm is nice work if you can get, taking on the editorship of a major evening newspaper is another matter altogether. Editing a paper is not a part-time job.

I've yet to meet an editor who doesn't work phenomenally long hours - and yet Mr Osborne, whose journalistic experience is next to none, is apparently taking on such an onerous position along with all his other highly-renumerated positions.

Call me cynical, but I bet it'll be his colleagues lower down the pecking (and pay) order who are the ones putting the paper to bed day in and day out while he sees to his other work commitments.