GH, Robson Green and I walked into the lobby of a publishing house and were directed to take the lift to the top floor. With a sinking feeling I realised I could not remember what we were there to discuss, and contemplated pretending I had lost my voice.

We sat down at the boardroom table and were joined by more and more people until the room was full. Glancing under the table I spotted four lapdogs doing synchronised somersaults. No one else seemed to think this unusual.

The mood in the room changed suddenly and the publishers turned aggressive. Their anger was directed at Robson Green – they announced he was to be forcibly strip searched and when I objected someone threw a blanket over me so I didn’t have to watch. GH and I escaped, but where was Robson? I felt guilty that we had left him behind and on the way to the train station I walked into a pub in Blackpool and arranged a singing gig for Robson with a man playing a squeezebox. My only problem now was how to let Robson know I had done this?