Rarely am I completely child free, and so it was that I indulged in a little flash dancing (minus the Jennifer Beale body rolls, high kicks and headband) around my lounge room to some of my rather eclectic, well-worn CDs.

On this particular occasion, I started out with Billy Joel rock anthems from the ’80s, moved on to Kate Ceberano covers, and finished up with jazz from the delectable crooner Michael Buble.

It was a case of “dance like there’s no one watching’’, because no one was, thank goodness.

My dancing style is more Bridget Jones in the jail scene of Edge of Reason (minus impossibly tight top, Madonna bra and short, short skirt). I try hard, but there just are too many wobbly bits. Only the promise of doing the tango with Colin Firth could convince me to dance in public.

Wobbly bits aside - and big knicker jibes aside - I’ve finally made the agonising decision to downsize.

It had weighed heavily on my mind for some time. I had grown to love my big, bulky chassis, although I knew I’d be better off with having a much smaller one.

Family and friends have congratulated me, and I know in my head that it’s a move in the right direction.

And no, I haven’t booked in for lapband surgery or radical liposuction in Bali. I’ve sold my Toyota Prado GXL and am waiting (impatiently) for my new base model Nissan Micra to arrive next week.

Without question this is an extreme makeover, going from a giant, road-hogging V6 with heaps of grunt to a teeny-tiny four cylinder that has VW-type headlights and a Fiat-looking rear end.

The two couldn’t be more different to look at, except I stuck with a metallic silver colour.

I liken this major gear shift in my life to dropping about four dress sizes in one go; down from a size 18 to 10. Sure I feel better about myself - you do when you lose weight - and I’ll be saving heaps of money and the environment, chewing much less fuel.

It’s my craving for power - horsepower - that worries me most about the changeover.