Well, we’re less than a week into 2011 and already economists and MPs are warning that we’re in for a very bumpy ride indeed.

But how can the pundits be so sure?

After all, I don’t remember anyone kicking off 2008 with the warning that by September the word “banker” would be a popular term of abuse.

So, on the basis that I once sat O-level economics and my great aunt claimed to be clairvoyant, here are my predictions for 2011.

Most of us will actually lose a bit of weight in 2011.

This is because gas and petrol prices will be so high that we will use the old fashioned method of shivering to keep ourselves warm, which is a great way of literally shaking off the pounds. We’ll keep the gas-guzzling car in the garage and walk more, too, saving ourselves pounds and pounds.

There will be discord on the streets.

This is because it is a very long time since we held proper street parties. We’ve all seen so much archive footage of mothers in pinnies bringing out blancmanges and fairy cakes to trestle tables lined with eager children waving small union flags, that we are all convinced we too can do what the British do best and hold a party out on the road to celebrate the royal wedding.

But look carefully. Those pinnies were grafted onto those mothers. Their lives revolved around baking and cooking and, of course, laundering their floral pinafores. We’ve lost the knack.

Most of us couldn’t put our hands on a trestle table if our lives depended on it, let alone assemble a sherry-free trifle or make dainty cucumber sandwiches.

It would be as much as you could ask to pick up a couple of Ginsters pasties from the Coop on the way home from work.

And our kids won’t want to put on hats made out of Dairylea boxes with elastic under the chins, or help us make bunting. Not when there’s a new Xbox game due out.

So I predict that on April 29th the streets of Britain will be heaving with the grunts and mutters of resentful teenagers pushing jelly around plates as their parents eye them grimly.

Each mother will try to hide her disappointment at the way her Victoria sponge has turned out and will rush indoors every few minutes to check her mate really is watching the royal wedding as he claims, rather than sharing another six-pack of lager with that miserable bloke from round the corner.

I also predict that the number of celebrities in this country will grow at such a rate that by Christmas there will be more celebs than non-celebs.

At that point, the Daily Mail will start a new section dedicated to uncovering the sordid secrets of people like that pleasant cashier at the bank or the woman who serves in the Post Office.

Current headlines such as “Is dancer Derek Hough really the right man for Cheryl Cole?” will give way to “Should Mrs Chambers book two weeks in Mallorca again or is Corsica the right destination for her?”, and “Weather girl Clare Nasir and Coronation Street's Beverley Callard and Debbie Rush show off their bikini bodies after losing a staggering EIGHT STONE between them” will be replaced by “Gill and Emma lost a total of three pounds at slimming class this week and celebrated with fish and chips on the way home. Mmm, lovely”.

Honestly, will anyone notice?

And, finally, the prediction that I hope most sincerely will come true.

If you don’t spend most nights from 7pm to 7.15 listening to The Archers, go and muck out your stable now.

But I predict that the paramedics who found Nigel Pargetter in a pile at the bottom of his, er, pile the other night will turn out to be knaves and scoundrels.

In fact, rather than dead as a dodo, Nigel is just in a deep coma, from which he will awaken very soon.

No wonder Lizzie won’t discuss funeral dates. She’s peeped ahead at the script.

And I also predict a very happy and prosperous year for all of us.

Just don’t ask me what grade I got in economics.