IF ever there was a word to strike fear into me when I’m trying to get to an event it’s the big ‘D’ word… Diversion.

I have learned, especially when going over the old Pennines, to add at least an hour onto my journey because it’s never straightforward.

You’re either held up in Tintwistle or have to take the circuitous way via the M62 where there’s usually an incident.

Thank the Lord I did add extra onto my journey this week because I got to Penistone to head to Liverpool and there was the dreaded sign: ‘road ahead closed’.

No more signage, no more clues, nothing to say ‘people going to Manchester, you need to go to X where you’ll be able to go on your merry way’.

But there was a yellow ‘diversion’ so I followed it.

Am I the only one who thinks that the people putting up the diversion signs get bored half-way through the duty and can only be bothered putting up a few leading us to guess the rest of the way?

So there’s the diversion for the people heading on the jolly road to cross the Pennines but it’s sending me in the other direction. My spidey senses are kicking off.

Really? But the diversion signs continue and I follow the yellow brick road (sorry, yellow tin signs) only to end up in Thurgoland. Where I find: ‘end of diversion’. This a joke? I could have kicked someone.

Nothing for it but to head back to Barnsley and take the motorway, where I prayed for most of the way there would be no hold-ups.

Someone up there heard me and probably for the first time ever, I traversed the M62 with not a blip and arrived with just ten minutes to spare, when I should have been there an hour early.

So whoever put up the diversion in Penistone, thanks for chuffing nothing.

The spirit of Easter and Christianity was alive and kicking this week up our way. Not.

Disgusting footage on Facebook of a man and a woman – maybe early 30s, approaching Pogmoor’s Premier Express, male scrote standing outside presumably keeping a look out while female scrote walks in and, calm as you like, goes over to the counter and lifts both charity boxes to nick.

Only they’re chained. The bloke behind the till remonstrates with her but cocky as you like, she strolls out, shrugging her scrotey shoulders and off they go on their travels, presumably looking for another shop with a charity box.

It’s the sheer nerve of them trying to nick from charity, the fact they have no shame. And if the shopkeeper gave them a good pasting, he’d be the one in trouble and the sympathies would all lie with the perps who are obvsiously driven to steal because of some ridiculous limp reason.

Not even worth ringing the police these days, is it? Wrong, wrong, wrong. The lines between good and bad are totally screwed aren’t they?

I bought a pair of Doc Martens. White, beautiful… and dear God they’re uncomfortable.

What do I do, I asked? Buy this balm, someone said. Buy these gel socks, someone else advised. Buy some inners. Buy these thick socks.

Determined to wear them, I bought everything. I totted up to find the stuff to wear the boots – plus the blister plasters – has now cost me more than the actual boots.

And I can still only wear them for five flaming minutes...