WILL the people who want to read this column please form an orderly queue. No pushing at the back and no sneaking in with a pal when I'm not looking.

When I give the word, the person at the front of the queue can begin reading. When they have finished, the second in line can have a go, and so on and so forth until everyone has had their turn.

Queue-jumpers will be dealt with severely. If you are caught, you will be made to read this column twice... aloud... on the number 13 bus.

As you have probably gathered by now, I'm quite a fan of queuing. Not that I enjoy standing in line with muttering strangers, pretending not to listen to their conversations and trying not to whistle (as I get older I find myself whistling more and more - there's probably a scientific reason for this, but I'm too busy queuing to look it up).

I do, however, appreciate the fairness of queuing. I like it that everyone can see at a glance where they stand, both literally and metaphorically, and that a simple pecking order is established based on nothing more controversial than punctuality. It doesn't matter how rich, how clever or how beautiful you are. Your colour, religion, sex and age rarely enter the equation. All that matters is what time you turn up.

Queuing has always been a quintessentially British pastime. Prehistoric man probably dragged himself out of the primordial slime somewhere outside Kidderminster at the dawn of time and immediately started a queue.

I thought we had been happily queuing ever since. But recent experiences point to a different conclusion. It seems that while I have been happily queuing, others have been pushing in and sneaking ahead. I just hadn't noticed that the queue in front of me was growing, while the queue behind me was mysteriously diminishing.

I got the first inkling that something was wrong in the world of queuing when I took the kids to Tropical World in Leeds last week.

We'd closely inspected all the fluttery, creepy crawly and scuttling things it had to offer and were busy trying to find cheap and cheerful keepsakes in the gift shop. My lad chose a repulsive frog - it makes a gloopy gurgling noise when you squeeze it - and headed for the till with his pound coin.

"Wait your turn," I yodelled, while trying to wrestle a plastic tarantula from the clammy grasp of my daughter.

And he did. Unfortunately, no one else followed suit. While he stood patiently waiting to pay for his frog, at least half a dozen adults jostled for position in front of the till. It was a pathetic sight. But not quite as pitiful as when we went to see Charlie And The Chocolate Factory at the weekend.

So many kiddiewinks and their hysterically excited parents had turned up to see the film (which is absolutely whipplescrumptiously delightful, by the way) that we had to form a queue in the foyer.

This was a long queue, stretching from the popcorn popper to the pick-and-mix and back again.

But we all had tickets and we knew there was room for everyone inside, so there was no reason for any of us to get hot under the collar about having to wait in line.

The ability to reason, however, is not a universal skill.

At least two families tried to sneak under the barrier while the spotty teenage manager's back was turned, and a third rushed from the back of the queue and elbowed their way through the kids at the front as soon as the barrier was raised.

"Come on," shouted the matriarch of this particularly dismal brood. "Why should we queue up with this bunch of dipsticks?"

I hope she choked on her Wonka Bar.

Updated: 10:51 Monday, August 08, 2005