BE warned. What I am about to reveal is quite possibly the scariest symptom of growing old you will ever hear of. Well, aside from incontinence. But to be fair, I’m not that old, and I don’t think we know each other well enough to talk about that yet.

No! This is a secret that affects both men and women, yet no-one ever appears to talk about. Until now...

For me it all started one evening a few weeks ago.

There I was, on the sofa watching the television, and up popped an advert for the new Richard Gere movie about a dog called Hachiko.

To put this story into perspective, I firmly believe this world is divided into dog people and cat people and I am a 100 per cent dog person.

I adore dogs. I once even had a huge argument live on air with the guys I work with, about how I would sell my house to pay a vet bill if it would save the life of my dog.

By the way, if you are nodding your head and don’t think I am insane, you are a dog person; welcome to the club.

Anyway, back to the TV... Having vaguely heard about the movie in question, I quickly googled its storyline on my laptop… and, well, in the words of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, “Big mistake. Big. Huge!”

Within 30 seconds I was a blubbing mess, tissues in hand, heartbroken about a story of a dog waiting in the same spot every day for his master to return home, even nine years after his death.

In fact, even writing about this now makes me well up. Luckily I’m still sane enough to realise this isn’t good. Heck, I even know all the tricks they use to sucker you in: the tinkly piano, the orchestral music...

But recently I find the tricks are working on me. I now cry at any nice, vaguely emotional tale.

Here’s a quick list of recent unfortunate viewing incidents: l Glee, when they win the sectionals: two tissues.

l The press conference at the end of Notting Hill? Three tissues.

l Sleepless in Seattle, do not let me anywhere near the final scene without some Kleenex.

Fortunately, though, all of these incidents have occurred while I have been hidden in the safety of my own home, sparing me ridicule.

Unlike a few weeks ago when, trapped on a plane, I mistook the words heart-wrenching for heart-warming and had to spend two hours with my pillow strategically wedged as a screen between myself and the guy beside me.

I thought I got away with it, till a steward leaned over the pillow and asked if I wanted a tissue.

The embarrassment was enough to make a grown woman want to cry.