After nearly two weeks in the Celebrity Big Brother house, Ann sends her latest thoughts

but it is also worrying. The concept of the greater good seems to be disappearing before our very eyes. Up until this Sunday I had kept my dignity on this programme through the simple expedient of retiring to bed once the evening meal is over and cleared up. Then the drink flows and the crude behaviour starts, whereas by day the conversation is more serious and we are immersed in tasks.

What other people do is up to them but I do not want to be in their midst when they do it. So actress Amanda Barrie and I and quite often journalist Rachel Johnson too tend to retire to bed while the swearing and wildness reach us in snatches from the lounge. I have been asleep, despite the bright lights in the dormitory, for hours before the revelry finishes.

Then on Sunday evening Big Brother locked down the bedrooms and I could not escape. The inevitable happened and Andrew Brady (The Apprentice) decided to wind me up with a piece of filthy conversation which I have no doubt was broadcast. I retired to the chilly garden, feeling like the white owl who sits alone in the belfry warming his five wits.

There was one hilarious task which involved a quiz in which our mandate was to persuade our team captains to give the wrong answers. The girls’ fall guy was Jess whom Rachel persuaded to spell Orangutan as Oranghutan.

Funny? Yes, but as there too often is here, there was an edge of cruelty. After all, why had the public selected Jess and Andrew as the captains? Because they were deemed the most unlikely to spot the rot the rest of us were talking. It left me feeling uncomfortable.

I reckon we could enter Guinness World Records for saying the word “nomination” the most times in a day. As I write this we do not yet know who is up for eviction this week. It could be I who am packing my case and returning to normal life.

Normal life? Where has it gone? Books, pens, paper, phones? Is there snow on Dartmoor? All I know is there is none in the Big Brother garden. Has my godson got into Cambridge? He will have found out last week. I shall find out only when I leave. Have the house sitters remembered to turn my car engine over? I shall know when I next get into it. Is the war in Syria finally over? Has there been a reshuffle? Is Rachel’s brother still foreign secretary?

If it is not I who am leaving then I hope it will not be Rachel or Amanda who are the sources of my sanity, nor dancer Wayne Sleep who is teaching me to tap dance. The experiment is frustrated by my dancing either in brogues which will not slide easily or socks which cause me to slip but even for the five minutes at a time that we give it, it is fun.

Others have found their fun by screwing up kitchen foil into balls and learning from Andrew how to juggle. Rapper Ginuwine folded up a tissue into squares and played noughts and crosses with different coloured sweet wrappers. Parlour games abound with charades being a favourite, although being given Malcolm X to mime was beyond me.

Meanwhile there are sinister rustlings and things that go bump in the night as the crew work unseen while we are asleep. The other morning when I had risen early and was lying fully clothed on my bed there was a pencil-thin beam from a torch being shone directly in my eyes and curtains twitched behind what look on the outside like mirrors. I could write a thriller based on this place but it might be a bit too chilling.

Have I done the right thing by coming here? As yet I am as undecided as I was when I wrote this page last week. Only time will tell and I have no idea how much I have of that left in this overcrowded bubble of babble.