I wake up bolt upright at 5.30am. I look in the mirror and realise I’ve inadvertently left my false eyelashes on from the previous day’s telly. They hang rather precariously from my upper lids – my mascara is half way down my cheeks and my hair is doing a good impersonation of Jedward. My husband rolls over and states that I look like a drag queen and promptly falls back to sleep.
I nearly always wake up before both my husband and our alarm on a working day as I have a morbid fear of being late, probably a by-product of being schooled by nuns. Today is like most other days, I jump in the shower and then race round the house deciding on what to wear; this usually involves a lot of stamping, swearing and searching – yet in spite of this drama, I always end up in a little black dress.
Annoyingly on TV days colour is essential, and green has become my Embarrassing Bodies staple. Today, however, there’s a hem down, no wonder web and a baby to feed, so it’s back to black. I always try to snatch a cuddle from my baby before I leave. Breakfast is normally two pints of tea – I don’t do food in the morning. Then I’m on my bike to the train station.
I live in Cambridge where the general mantra is “four wheels bad, two wheels good”. When I arrive I jump on the train and immediately hook up with my second husband – my iPad. I write for various women’s magazines so at every available opportunity I write something. Usually, I sit in a carriage of businessmen who spend the journey discussing the Yen and the Dow Jones, while I’m frenetically typing an article on farting – each to their own.
On arrival in London I jump in a black cab; I’m not keen on the Tube, it’s not snootiness or perceived celebrity status, it’s the humongous escalators. I have a recurring nightmare of falling down backwards and crushing everyone like a pack of cards. I arrive at my location – a swish clinic on Harley St where I’m having a mole removed. Today I am the Embarrassing Body. We are encouraged to do immersive strands so I’m having a mole whipped off my back.
When I’m back in Cambridge, I’m back on my bike to ride to the BBC to do a radio link with an Irish station where I host a slot called Air Your Ailments. It’s over in ten minutes – it’s like a quick fire round of medical curiosities, the good, the bad and the ugly.
I finally head home to start my half day at 4pm. I’m greeted by a smiling baby as I bolt though the door, and a distraught dog desperate for a walk. So it’s a quick change into my Lycra. I have a jogging buggy (invested in it to beat the baby bulge), so off I go with baby and dog for a run up the river. I am supposed to be training for a triathlon, but it’s a bit of a struggle. Story of my life – I’m always saying yes to things and then fly by the seat of my pants to try to complete them.
After the five-mile run I head to Waitrose. I only ever seem to get recognised when I’m a sweaty mess and find myself doing an autograph for a fan by the avocados. On to the shopping; I have banned all “beige” food since Christmas, so I settle for a fresh fish in a box, although some Magnums find their way into my basket.
Once we’re home I try to coax Darcy Trixie Belle to sleep. My husband arriving home is a signal to invent some supper; my cooking skills are abysmal. The kitchen looks like a car crash if I’m on dinner duty. So once I’ve trashed the place I take Darcy Trixie Belle to bed. In the meantime I hope my clean-freak husband has made a start on the mess in the kitchen, but he’s dozed off. We sit down to eat at 8pm to dissect the day: I’m a big fan of sitting down together for dinner, even if it’s midnight. I catch the tail end of Coronation Street, then it’s bedtime. I’m being a proper doctor tomorrow so I need to get some shut-eye – there are no retakes in the real world.