I am not a total pig. I usually manage to complete the day without gobbing on the street, and I have a basic grasp of what to do at most formal occasions: don't scream at the sight of multiple cutlery settings, don't stab the bore on your left with one of the forks, and don't tell anyone you're having sex with that he's doing it wrong. Still, I am the first to admit that I am a work in progress, and there are things I could do better. Luckily, there is currently an abundance of etiquette books on the market to help me mend my ways, and I decided to see what a week dedicated to adopting their precepts can do for a girl.

Monday

Let us start, as that famous stickler for good manners Mary Poppins would say, at the very beginning. I have an array of helpmeets before me - Blaikie's Guide to Modern Manners, Jane Austen's Guide to Good Manners, Debrett's Etiquette for Girls, Her Ladyship's Guide to Modern Manners, and A Pinch of Posh: A Beginner's Guide to Being Civilised - and all emphasise the importance of personal grooming. "Elegance" is a word that crops up repeatedly. Jane Austen's Guide defines this vaguely as a matter of styling one's hair with care, using cosmetics with restraint and avoiding finery and show. A Pinch of Posh puts it more brutally: "Treat [every extremity] to a serious clipping, descaling and declagging." Debrett's concurs, but fortunately provides more in the way of specifics. To "enjoy the elegance of femininity" requires manicures, an eyebrow and other waxes, handwashing bras to prolong their lifespan and "understanding the real power of a heel". Jeans and T-shirts are considered outfits for days when "you really can't be bothered" rather than daily uniform, and I should learn to indulge in foreign shopping sprees and love small, chic, independent clothing emporia. Oh, and a large silk square is an indispensable aid as it can become a hair accessory, a top, a belt, a knapsack or a sarong.

My timetable does not allow for foreign trips but, nothing daunted, I mentally reconfigure my wardrobe as a collection of choice pieces from a boutique in L'Ewishamme called Primarque, dig out a skirt, find a pair of heels, shave my legs and pluck my eyebrows. I draw the line at hand-washing bras. I suspect this advice was given with sumptuous Rigby & Peller creations in mind. It seems an unnecessary investment in the health and welfare of a handful of off-white shreds from Matalan. I don't have a large silk square, but hope a tablecloth will prove equally adaptable.

Tuesday

Now that I am elegant, I must have an elegant home and "create an atmosphere of order and harmony" within it, according to the JAG. This is going to be hard. I was raised in a house with the atmosphere of a Spartan barracks. I have rebelled against this by living in chaos. I have no idea how to reconcile those extremes to create an easeful domestic scene. "To sit in idleness over a good fire in a well-proportioned room is a luxurious sensation," Austen once wrote to a correspondent. I call the Guardian. Will they buy me a Georgian townhouse for this article? They will not. So I tidy up instead, plump the cushions and turn on the central heating. Life is a series of compromises.

Debrett's advises that a smooth-running household involves things such as having a supply of cards at the ready so that one is never at risk of being unable to send congratulations or commiserations at short notice. Imagine my relief at having such a collection already in my desk drawer. Imagine my unconfined joy when I realise that they all have the Debrett's-mandated diamond-flap envelopes. This is more by accident than design, I confess, having never before realised that horizontally flapped envelopes could betray my proletarian roots as effectively as wiping my bum on leaves at a garden party. We live and learn.

Inspired by this, I embrace the instructions common to all the guides and catch up on my correspondence. I do feel better having discharged these responsibilities. The power of the heel is nothing compared with the power of an empty inbox and the satisfaction of a job well done.

Wednesday

So far my efforts have been concerned with only the more formal, practical aspects of etiquette. The books all argue that such attention to detail and to personal image are the bedrock of self-discipline and self-respect. This may be true, but in England at least the pulse that beats behind these kinds of rules is snobbery, and the desire to mark some out as superior for knowing how to eat asparagus.

I suddenly remember a formal dinner at university which got to the cheese course and was brought to a halt by a fellow demanding to know "what utter reprobate had pointed the brie". We didn't know what he meant because nobody had a clue that you are supposed to cut brie like a cake so that everyone gets an equal share of soft centre, harder edge and rind, and not simply lop the end off unthinkingly. But it only dawns on me now that overstrict adherence to etiquette in the presence of those not au fait with it can in fact be the height of bad manners. I am pleased with this profound point and decide that it is time to concentrate on following the broader principles behind polite and mannerly behaviour - those which, as Her Ladyship's Guide puts it, "spring from simpler and more understandable roots ... the natural human concern most of us have for other people and the wish to avoid hurting, embarrassing or inconveniencing others unnecessarily".

Perhaps it is the decline of these instincts in modern society that is fuelling the resurgence in the books' popularity. We may care little about cutlery settings or decoding heraldry, but who among us has not felt the need for some way of restoring a sense of fitting behaviour to the populace at large? Who among us has not picked his or her way home at night down a high street littered with people screaming drunken abuse at each other, their attempts to exhaust their Anglo-Saxon vocabularies interrupted only by the desire to spew an arc of vomit across the pavement, and felt that the reintroduction of a shared system of good manners might re-establish the smooth running of society, and at worst might mean you wouldn't get other people's piss all over your shoes every Friday night. Etiquette guides hold out the promise that such a dream can be fulfilled.

Charged by this idealistic notion, I sally forth to the high street, determined to treat everyone with the utmost courtesy. When I have to faff about at the cashpoint, I turn to the waiting hordes, smile and apologise. They react with stony contempt. Nothing daunted, I greet shop assistants with a cheery hello and smile, as recommended by Blaikie's. Reactions vary from delighted reciprocation from the older staff to surly contempt from the teenagers, but all are prefaced by a moment of stunned disbelief. Quite sad, really.

I bump into a friend of a friend. She wants to go for coffee. Hints on Etiquette and the Usages of Society (written in 1836) warns against "making acquaintances in coffee houses or other public places. As no person who respects himself does so, you may reasonably suspect any advances made to you." This makes sense to me, as the last time I got chatting to a stranger - a middle-aged man on a bench in Trafalgar Square - he lost little time in asking me to lash him to the bench and wee on him. Even before I'd read Hints on Etiquette I thought that was rude. But although I suspect I am breaching the spirit of the rule, I agree to coffee, as it will be a chance to put into practice my new manners. I ask her lots of questions about herself, do not interrupt, and keep my body language open. "Palms upturned, extended eye contact ... nodding is more conducive to sociability," says Debrett's. My companion says I look like a sociopath with astigmatism. Perhaps I need to be more subtle.

I hold several doors open for people. One woman strides through without a word. I respond in accordance with Blaikie's recommendation and aim a loud and pointed "Thank you so much" in her direction. She does not look back. Now I am supposed to pursue her and say, "I'm so sorry. Did you forget to thank?" Alas, because I have been entirely drained of strength by the courage needed to shout down the street at her, I cannot. She continues on her evil way and I stagger home.

Thursday

I am exhausted by the strain of all this good behaviour and decide it is time that my boyfriend contribute to the experiment by providing some comments on one of the few books in the genre dedicated to the male of the species, Mr Jones' Rules for the Modern Man. My boyfriend comes from the kind of family that still derives the bulk of its income from ground rents instead of work, and his name is Toryboy, which may or may not have had some bearing on his responses.

The section on how to behave at a lapdancing club bemuses him. "You should distract the young ladies from their unedifying task by engaging them in conversation - what did she think of the editorial on emerging resource markets in the Economist? If she tells you her name, say politely, 'Ah, yes - are they the Suffolk Koslovskis?' "

The chapters on weddings and morning dress I know are going to upset him. Early on in our relationship we attended a friend's wedding. He wore his grandfather's tailcoat, a green silk waistcoat and apologised for the state of his top hat. "I lost my good one at Cambridge," he sighed. "This is really a hunting hat, worn by one of my episcopal great-grandfathers, but it will have to do." I drank a lot at that wedding.

I read out a selection of the tome's regulations, and he becomes increasingly distressed.

"He says you should wear grey buckskin gloves with morning dress." "If he wants attention, he would be better off wetting the bed. Who is this wretched man?"

"He says you can wear loafers to a wedding." "If I were a real-estate dealer in Miami, doubtless these would be words of wisdom for me."

He grabs the book and leafs through in mounting horror. "There doesn't even seem to be any discussion about front and back studs. I am going to write to my MP and have this book banned!"

Friday

Time is running out and I still haven't had a chance to put my new-found knowledge into practice. Where are the gatherings that will let me to "put a little caviar on the biscuits with your knife and, depending on the size of the biscuit, take a bite or pop the whole thing in your mouth", as Her Ladyship's Guide suggests? Or the meetings with royalty so that I can address Her Majesty after our first meeting as Ma'am-rhymes-with-ham-not-harm? Where, above all, are the invitations that will enable me to be a good yacht guest as prescribed by Debrett's?

In the evening, I have dinner with friends at their house. I don't take Toryboy for the simple reason that, while he is pretty hot on buckskin dos and don'ts, he has the social graces of a tumour. The books tell me that chocolates and wine are safe but uninspired gifts. I reason that safe and uninspired will still be a notch up from my normal offerings - squashed and leaking - and take them anyway. To explain my punctuality, skirt, advanced state of depilation and insistence on polite small talk, I tell them about the project. The hostess reveals that she was a debutante who once attended the Lucie Clayton College for etiquette and deportment lessons. They had a wooden car frame to help them learn how to get in and out without flashing their knickers, and a teacher who took them for a meal in a restaurant and when the cheese course arrived stood up and roared, "What utter reprobate has pointed the brie?" That was in 1992. I love this country.

Saturday

Write a thank-you letter to Friday's hosts - on a correspondence card, with a fountain pen, in black ink, of course, lest the Debrett's stationery squad arrest me.

Sunday

The day of my own dinner party. I compile from my guides a list of things to remember: graceful greetings; conversational standbys to fill in any awkward pauses and a selection of improving topics to discuss; a mental seating plan (never to be called a placement); the gentle and unobtrusive ushering of guests to their places; no blowing on food or talking with my mouth full; ensure that everyone is well fed and watered at all times; guide the conversation away from sensitive topics. The bulk of these, I decide, can best be accomplished by not getting drunk more quickly than my guests, and by shutting Toryboy in the cellar. These twin pillars of good sense support a wholly decorous evening. We are, as Jane Austen would not put it, bored shitless.

Mindful of the overarching rule that one must be considerate of others' entertainments and comforts at all times, even if it means turning away from convention, I break out Toryboy and the hard liquor. Twenty minutes later, the place is a tip, the conversation has turned to X Factor versus Strictly Come Dancing and one guest has confessed to having chlamydia. But a good time was had by all. And at least no reprobate pointed the brie.

· Debrett's Etiquette for Girls, by Fleur Britten, Debrett's, £17.99; Mr Jones' Rules for the Modern Man, by Dylan Jones, Hodder & Stoughton, £14.99; Jane Austen's Guide to Good Manners, by Josephine Ross, Bloomsbury, £9.99; Her Ladyship's Guide to Modern Manners, by Lucy Gray, National Trust Books, £6.99; Hints on Etiquette and the Usages of Society, Summersdale Publishers, £7.99; A Pinch of Posh: A Beginner's Guide to Being Civilised, by Mr & Mrs Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen, Collins, £12.99; Blaikie's Guide to Modern Manners, by Thomas Blaikie, Fourth Estate, £10.