FLICKERING FLUORESCENT LIGHTS jeer at me. It’s 2015 and I’m working a regular nine-to-five job, getting paid very little. I thought life would be different by now. I know I’m still relatively young, but I’m only a few years away from entering that stage where if something doesn’t change, if I don’t tear off in an alternate direction, then society will sort me into ‘older woman about to have a baby’ territory, and I’ll never be able to pivot so easily again.

Last year, I put myself forward for two high-profile competitions in an attempt to realise my dream of becoming a presenter. I value my private life highly, so this seemed an odd thing to be chasing; but I love to entertain. Being a professional performer – where there are clear buckets of ‘this is when you’re on’ and ‘this is when you’re not’ – seemed fun. Manageable, even.