Like the little girl Longfellow wrote about – ‘when she was good, she was very, very good, but when she was bad she was horrid ‘ – I find myself forced to admit I was wrong.

Finger-pointingly wrong.

Because until Friday, June 27, I really didn’t believe the London 2012 Olympics could be anything special.

I thought instead they’d be reminiscent of that other great celebration of international competition, Jeux Sans Frontières (a family staple of 1970s television), where Italy, France and Spain would host the It’s A Knockout heats with impeccable style and Team GB would rent an outdoor swimming pool in Blackpool.

Of course, I didn’t actually voice this opinion, since it seemed unpatriotic, but nurtured it instead like an abscess or stomach cramp. Since then, clearly, I have had to eat my words.

You’ll be delighted to know, I’ve subsequently choked, all red faced and bulging eyes, several times, such as during the opening ceremony, throughout Claire Balding’s swimming commentary and during the last 30 minutes of Bradley Wiggins’ heroic win. And that has just been the tip of the iceberg.

Other memorable moments have included cheering on Hamadou Djibo Issaka, the rower from Niger who, despite being all at sea with his oars, won gold from spectators for his under-dog grit. And loving Rebecca Adlington, whose sheer force of personality is bigger than the 50m pool she competes in.

Yes, I know I’m beginning to wax lyrical, and yes it’s unsettling because you can’t hide your genes, but at school I cheerily belonged to the Camera Club, French Club and Chess Club; sport was just something other species (as far as I was concerned) engaged in.

And until now, I’ve remained athletically, gymnastically and rowingly pubescent.

Thankfully, I’m currently undergoing something of a metamorphosis. And I’m not just talking sport.

This Olympics has forced me, perhaps for the first time, to understand the passion of competition.

There’s no doubt I’ve resented it all these years but I don’t think I’m entirely to blame.

After all, sport for almost every week of every year seems preoccupied with either football or rugby. And no matter how much of a sports fan I was, or now am, I know ultimately I’d find that boring.

What is great – and unique – about the Olympics is that suddenly, something as obscure as Greco-Roman wrestling or as fey as synchronized swimming can have you glued to your screen whooping along.

The other, almost unmeasurable benefit, is how the Games fine tune your sense of altruism and pride.

In London last week for instance, everywhere you went, volunteer Olympic Ambassadors were greeting, meeting and generally making everyone feel welcome. So much so, even I felt special – and I just wanted directions to Brent Cross.

It’s said, isn’t it, that there’s no fool like an old fool?

Well, I’m the living proof...