I stood at the prison gates to see my friend PB released. He had been (wrongly) accused of being a suffragette and had been subjected to force feeding.  We went home and when I opened my fridge, every item in it had turned mouldy.

Meanwhile the sparks between me and Chris Packham were really flying. I’d been playing it cool, casually turning up to the bar on Monday evenings and ordering vodka and orange. Our banter game was strong and there was electricity in the air.

I wandered away from him because I was needed at the deathbed wedding of Raquel from Coronation Street. After the ceremony, we stood her up so she could wear her going away outfit and the heel on her gold shoe broke. I rolled my eyes. What a waste of money.