Crises are earthquakes, famines and tidal waves. My team understands that the cancellation of the Christmas karaoke act is a crisis but have no concept that twelve weeks of plummeting ratings is a crisis. If they do get the concept and panic about it for fifteen minutes or so, they can’t hold the concept. It’s usual that mid-brainstorm or meeting, someone suggests that we need to go to the pub for a ‘break from the intensity’. On our return the original subject of the meeting is forgotten and the debate has moved on to whether salt and Linneker are a better flavour crisp than cheese and onion.

I don’t feel like this. There is nothing more important than my job.

I never enter a meeting room without first thinking through exactly what I want to say, how I want to say it and what effect I want to have. Fi being keen and ambitious, whilst slightly threatening and nauseous, is useful. She’ll really want to crack this. I’ve slept with both Mark and Tom, although neither of them knows about the other. (FYI, Mark is better-looking, Tom is better in bed. He tries harder.) It should be easy to keep their attention. Especially as by happy chance I am wearing an unnecessarily tight T-shirt and bootleg jeans that cling in all the right places. I haven’t slept with Gray so the outfit will be doubly effective. Debs and Di like to keep in with me as I occasionally give them tips on hair conditioners or the latest ‘must have’ fashion statement. Ricky’s gay so he does the same for me.

‘Afternoon,’ I breeze.

‘Afternoon,’ they mumble sulkily. For a nanosecond I think they are going to add ‘miss’, but they don’t.

‘What’s this?’ I ask, pointing sceptically towards a cardboard box in the centre of the table. It’s overflowing with balloons, Christmas decorations, crayons, sticky-backed plastic, old magazines, a toy trumpet, several Comic Relief noses and a cappuccino.

‘Oh, that’s my coffee,’ says Di, reaching into the box and rescuing her drink. She takes a huge slurp, oblivious to my disdain.