I ask his name and try to commit it to memory. I ask what he does, and he does something or other. It doesn’t matter. His prospects only matter to women who want a future. I notice he has very large feet and this is exciting. In my experience (wide and varied) the old adage is true. I constantly touch him. Little light touches on his arm and shoulder. I even pick off an imaginary piece of lint from his breast pocket. It always amazes me that men fall for this clichéd crap but they always do. I run my tongue around my lips, my teeth and the olive in his Martini. He is not vulnerable. He knows this routine. He’s played it himself on countless occasions. He’s a little bit taken aback that it’s being played to him but my audacity excites. He tries to regain control of at least the conversation and asks what I do for a living. I tell him that I’m a TV producer for the new terrestrial channel, TV6, and this, if we were in any doubt, clinches it.

My glamorous job has huge pulling power. My job is glamorous, especially in comparison to most people’s jobs. It is an affectation of those who work in TV to continually deny that the job is fun or alluring. It’s a way of neutralizing our guilt at the hideously high salaries we earn. It is undoubtedly more glamorous to sell TV airtime than baked beans at a leading supermarket. It is unquestionably more exciting to spot Des O’Connor in the lifts than Dave Jones from accounts. However, TV is also bloody hard work. I’ve been in the business for twelve years now. I started as a gofer on Wake Up Britain straight after Uni. The pay was a pittance but I was thrilled. I had a job in television. I spent most of my time in a state of perpetual fear. I had no responsibility so the level of misdemeanour that I could aspire to was putting sugar in someone’s coffee when they’d distinctly asked for saccharin.