COMMENT

"YOU'RE dabbing too hard," the elderly lady at the adjacent table says quietly.

"She's dabbing too hard," shouts her grey-haired female friend, motioning to my boyfriend as if to say, you two clearly don't know what you're doing'.

And she's right, we don't.

The free dabbers (which are essentially felt tips from which the ink runs too fast) that come with our Mecca membership are just one of the many marvels for the wide-eyed, uninitiated of the bingo world like me.

It's an activity I've always associated with crochet jumpers and loose teeth.

I was duped into coming with the promise of the unknown. It's a surprise date and it certainly is surprising, but once I get the dabber under control there's no stopping me.

In addition to the bingo package you pay for on entry, there is also a run of electronic games on the scoreboard fixed into the table, which you can play in the breaks (which are plentiful to take account of the need for regular cigarette breaks and perhaps to avoid repetitive strain injury).

Thinking I'm getting the hang of it, I foolishly try two boards at once. The lady next to me is on the edge of her seat again.

"You've missed 17," she points out with evident concern. "And 11," she says leaning over, raising her voice. "You've missed 11."

An elderly gentleman to our right smiles condolences. He could paint the rainbow with the number of different-coloured felt tips he has neatly bound in an elastic band. A different spectrum for each game. It makes sense. The break is over and the real thing is back on.

I'm disappointed with the lack of rhyming slang, having expected lots of "legs eleven" and the like, but the adrenalin rush more than makes up for it.

The stakes are high, with potential winnings of thousands, and I can't decide if I'm more apprehensive about missing a number or about actually having to shout House!, only to discover I've got it wrong.

Following six separate cards at once is tricky enough but the real aficionados have got several books going simultaneously. Being bad at something is all very well, but not when sitting in the midst of professionals who are dabbing with the dexterity of robots in a car factory.

Suddenly, it looks like most of the numbers in my one card are smudged red with ink. My kindly neighbour intercepts, deftly copying down my remaining numbers to help me out.

The hall goes quiet. Just two numbers to go. I'm holding my breath, dabber poised, eye steady, when someone at the back shouts: "House!"

It's all over, but it doesn't stop the adrenalin coursing through my veins. I can see how this could be addictive.

We've won nothing and lost count of how much we've spent, but I'm hooked.