So the big day arrived. Have run around the house with a hoover, duster, two pairs of jeans, three shirts, two pairs of shoes and a tube of cold sore cream, I finally decided on the right outfit to wear. To be honest, I was in such a flap, that I am surprised that the end result wasn't two dusters fashioned into a bikini with a hoover bag on my head (mind you, this would have hidden the cold sore which now has its own postcode and has just received a Council Tax bill).
It also just happened to be the hottest day in bloody history, and the most important decision I had to make was whether to go with bare arms or sleeves. Actually, this was after choosing the best biscuits, buying the right fruit juice and selecting which of my tacky ornaments were to stay on show. (Apologies to my solar powered waving duck - you just didn't cut it yesterday).
So going back to the sleeves, you ladies of a certain age will recognise this dilemma very well - sleeves were obviously invented by someone who was unwilling to inflict their mottled, cellulite-ridden upper arms on an unsuspecting audience, and a damn fine invention they are too.
When you have arms which resemble those of a Russian shot putter, the sleeve is a welcome addition to your wardrobe. I have many types of sleeve in mine. Long, three-quarter, fluted, puffed, flared, cold-shouldered and short are all my friends. The only one I avoid is the dreaded capped sleeve - these are guaranteed to make you look like you're after a fight and also mean that shaving is necessary unless you want to look like a tough French woman.
So here was my dilemma. Did I go sleeveless, thus staying cool in the summer sun but run the risk of someone running up to me and shouting that I should be in Rio at the moment, or should I put the cardigan on, concealing said arms, and hope for a stiff breeze.
Well the sleeves won in the end. I chose a lovely pink cardigan, not thinking for one minute about how this would look on camera if I happened to have a hottie. You would be hard put to tell where my face stopped and the cardigan started, such is the way of a menopausal hot flush.
So the filming went well. No one died (always a bonus), everyone smiled, the husband didn't wear his t-shirt professing his love for pork-based snack products, and son number two didn't push the lovely television lady for preferential treatment with regard to entry onto next year's Love Island. The meal went well and I didn't poison anyone (again, a bonus) and the husband managed to talk seriously without giggling too much.
All in all, it was an education. Six hours of filming for twenty two minutes of programme. That's a lot to cram in, and bets are being placed in my house as to who ends up on the cutting room floor.
After the husband's unfortunate comments about my cooking, my money is on him...