Ruth Walker: "The mounting dread was similar to that felt in the days preceding the annual school Burns competition"

THERE was always something particularly depressing about going back to school after the Christmas break. Never mind that Santa had omitted to bring you a ballerina Sindy for the third year running; the mornings were dark and miserable and it was unlikely that you had been roused from your pit any time before midday in the preceding two weeks. So whose idea was it to throw a dose of ritual humiliation into the mix?

The annual school Burns competition was compulsory at my alma mater, and it was approached with about as much enthusiasm from the Walker twins as a post-Christmas-dinner yomp across the Pentlands in too-small wellies, with only watered-down orange juice and a misshapen Viscount biscuit as a reward.

But a quick straw poll around the office has revealed an astonishing gap in my colleagues' education. So, for those unfamiliar with the concept, to the best of my memory, the Robert Burns schools competition invited (read: coerced) primary-age children from across the country to compete

for glory by either reciting a piece of the Bard's verse or by singing one of his ditties. Out loud. In front of people. Oh, the shame for those shy, retiring types, like myself, with no musical abilities to speak of bar a subscription to Smash Hits and a regular date with Tommy Vance and a tape recorder on a Sunday evening.

No surprise, then, that my warbling rendition of 'A Red, Red Rose' was destined never to progress further than the initial stage of the competition, while those pupils blessed with more plummy vowels than mine feigned a broad Scots brogue all in the name of Burns stardom.

The experience is responsible for my ongoing aversion to public performance of any kind, but in particular singing. Which makes recent events rather tricky to explain. Because one dark and stormy night, following a particularly splendiferous office night out, I found myself in a shadowy underground bar smelling distinctly of vomit (that's the bar, you understand, not me) and clutching a list of song titles. The bawdiness of the surroundings would have been right up the Bard's alley. And, though I can't quite remember who first suggested it might be fun to go to a karaoke night, or indeed how they persuaded me to partake of the evening's entertainment, the mounting feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach was familiar, like that felt in the days preceding the annual school hoolie.

I was down to perform 'Leader of the Pack'. Never mind that I hadn't performed that particular number since New Year circa 1988 (complete with revving motorbike impressions, but the less said about that the better). Fortunately, the party gods were smiling on me that night and I managed to make my excuses before my name reached the top of the list.

But the spirit of Burns beckoned once more during an impromptu PlayStation SingStar session at a friend's house, and this time there was to be no escape. The children started it, born performers every one of them. The Teenager claimed the spotlight for U2, the boys did the Monkees (how apt) while the men murdered David Bowie.

But the microphone is a strange and hypnotic master, and when it calls you must obey. So several songs in, we had to show them all how it's done. My oldest, dearest friend and I gave Madonna a run for her money, followed by a bit of Dusty, then Aretha (you'll notice the diva theme, which is purely coincidental). It was like an old-fashioned sing-along fuelled, inevitably, by good food, plenty of drink and excellent company. Rabbie would have been in his element.