WOULD the last person in Britain who has not read Fifty Shades of Grey or rabidly booked tickets to the forthcoming film please stand up.

Sometimes I feel like I am the only person who is not caught up in the furore surrounding the EL James books and films.

As I walked to school to pick up my son I would often see parents sat in their cars engrossed in the story of a woman who meets the business man *swoon* Christian Grey and embarks in an erotic relationship with him.

Staring transfixed into dog-eared books or Kindles, trying to squeeze in the last few minutes of fantasy before they have to pick up the kids and resume their everyday life again - chicken nuggets, children's television and washing uniforms.

No wonder it got nicknamed "mummy porn".

But I feel like an outsider looking into the phenomena.

There's something about the idea of the books which leaves me stone cold - like when This Morning has features about sex, it is just decidedly unsexy.

I know they have become a cultural phenomenon, the fastest selling paperback in the UK with eye-watering book sales worldwide.

I have seen the tacky merchandise - the babygros saying "Nine months ago my mummy read Fifty Shades..." and teddy bears holding masks and cringed.

I baulk at the idea that every woman is supposed to be utterly in love with Mr Grey who, from what I can tell, is just controlling rather than representing the BDSM community.

But still people excitedly ask me if I am going to see it (no) or have I watched the trailers (also, no) or read the books (definitely no).

I shouldn't judge, if it has got people reading who may never usually pick up a book then that is great.

If you are a fan and are excitedly looking forward to watching the film this weekend then I hope it is good and lives up to your expectations.

But I personally can't wait for all the hype to die down.

Because Fifty Shades has left me feeling a little, well, grey.