11:25 on a Saturday night is not really the time of day that you want to learn that your Sunday has been usurped. I'm entirely sure how it even happened. One moment I'm on the phone to my dad and the next minute I am agreeing to help paint a room at the Church.

Painting itself isn't too bad. I quite enjoy it. I had done all the painting in my flat even before I'd finished unpacking. I couldn't wait to impose my own colour scheme and get rid of the Magnolia walls. But there are two things I don't like about painting, having to climb big ladders and doing the "cutting in" or the little fnickety bits round the edges. One moment I'm stood there talking to my dad and the next minute I'm on top of a 6 foot ladder painting round the ceiling.

A 6 foot ladder isn't really that bad. I'd probably be able to land on my feet if I fell off this, just so long as I don't have to do the other wall and climb up the 15 foot ladder. That is scary. It's not that I'm really afraid of the height - I'm more afraid of falling off and hitting the floor. Although, if watching the WWF has taught me anything it's that people can jump off the top of ladders and still survive. One moment I'm stood on top of a 6 foot ladder talking to my dad and the next minute I'm on top of the 15 foot ladder painting round the ceiling.

Damn him and his Jedi mind tricks.

I think one of the major tricks to overcoming fear is to pretend you're not afraid. If you act confident then you'll be confident. At least I found that that worked with Canadian Friends. Even if you're a shy retiring little flower like myself if you pretend you're confident then you come across as confident. And if you pretend for long enough, eventually you become confident. This approach is working well and I'm painting and leaning and swaying and haven't even thought about being 15 foot above the ground. And then my dad suddenly announces, "Hmmm, that ladder doesn't look very stable. I don't want anyone going up it unless they have a spotter."

And so he calls my mum. I would never go as far as calling my mother a "Little Old Lady" but she's 5"1' and is approaching retirement age. And she is now the only one stopping my ladder from falling over. I'm not sure if things have got better or worse. If I am to fall from the ladder, this now means that as I am falling not only do I have to make sure that I don't fall on my mother but neither does the ladder. And after doing that, then I have to think about falling properly on the ground. I go back to pretending that I am happy to be up the ladder.

As the afternoon moves on, I begin the second coat. By now the rest of the painters have progressed to the "Sit around eating bacon sandwiches and drinking strong tea" part of the afternoon, leaving me up the ladder on my own. The loving caring Church members shout helpful encouragement at me like "Ha ha ha! You missed a bit!!!" and they good-naturedly point out the bits I have overlooked.

And then some salvation comes. 6"3' Nick appears through the doors and is quickly given the job of stabilising my ladder. "Sorry I wasn't here sooner," he says "but I was playing football and I made a flying save and tipped one on to the bar with two minutes left and when I fell I think I dislocated my shoulder." I go back to pretending I am happy to be up the ladder.

So I've gone from being supported by an undersized elderly person to a giant who can't lift his arm above 45 degrees let alone catch me. I twist and contort trying to reach the bit behind the ceiling beam by the old chimney, which no one can see unless you're stood on a 15 foot ladder. At that moment, I arrive at the conclusion that my Father has decided to send his only son to die.

Good God!