Ges on the Box; I’d swap with Posh, if only to shop

SOMETIMES there’s a series on telly that really gets your imagination running riot. Adam Adamant was like that.

He was a sort of superhero, a smooth, sophisticated Edwardian swordsmith frozen in a block of ice, and who, for some reason I forget, thawed out in the Swinging Sixties.

One episode he’d be terrified of everything on four wheels, the next he’d be driving a brand new Mini. Driving tests were easier in those days. I hung on every move he made. Mind, I was only 12.

Now, “Boy Meets Girl” was a bit like Adam Adamant. Far-fetched. But compulsive viewing. And I don’t have the excuse of being 12.

I watched every episode. In case you’re into more taxing viewing, like “Britain’s Got Talent”, I’ll just give you a brief synopsis of the plot.

Picture: thunderstorm. Total strangers Danny, a paranoid, lefty anarchist, who works at a DIY store, and Veronica, an air-head fashion journalist living a comfortable life with boyfriend in a posh flat, meet by chance under an electricity pylon.

Picture: lightning strike, hits both of them who are then transposed into each others’ bodies . . . so Danny is Veronica, and vice-versa.

Got it? Right, four hours’ viewing later and, same pylon, different storm, they switch back. End of. Except, it got me thinking. I would very much like a plausible tale that I could spin to Victoria Beckham in a bid to get her beneath an electricity pylon just as lightning is about to strike.

Hey presto! Posh is dumped inside my size 24 and, strangely enough, I get her size six.

It’s not that I have any burning desire to look like Posh, but I’d struggle along for six months or so — long enough for her to have exercised and starved my Buddha-like curves into a passable size 10 and me to have made a sizeable dent in her millions.

I would also indulge my passion for anything chocolate — what scope: in six months she’d emerge a hefty size 18 with cellulite and wobbly bits. Revenge of the fatty.

I’m not sure if I could put up with David though. Once the initial novelty had worn off, say by the second day, what would we talk about? He’s not know for his in-depth analysis of the political spectrum.

So, I suggested Him Indoors might like to come with me to the pylon. He could take over David for a few weeks. I thought he might like a bit of Italian footie but, so he tells me, Mr B is on his way back home to Chelsea and nothing, but nothing, would get my Best Beloved playing on London turf.

He thinks it’s a daft idea anyway, and insists he prefers my Buddah-esqueness to Posh’s stick insectness. There’s a man who knows which side his bread is buttered.

Pity about the cash though. . . I could really DO shopping like a WAG.