I say yes, because of the others. But when the camera crew come back, I’m much more careful about what I say, because I want to protect Leo, and myself.

Transmission is two days before Leo’s birthday and four days before Christmas, so the programme couldn’t matter less to me. Mum has abandoned her sophisticated decor preferences and gone full tinsel, so the house looks like a cross between a Turkish bazaar and an infants’ school hall.

Her love for Leo has helped me understand her more. What producers and directors have seen as stroppiness is really the fierce tenacity of someone who fought her way out of poverty, and will fight to keep her family above water, no matter what.

I hold my squirming son in my arms as he points at the red and green garlands. Suddenly I realize Leo will probably end up going to the same primary school as me. How weird and amazing it’s going to feel to drop him off at the gates on his first day . . . I know he might struggle academically, but he’s already doing better than we were told to expect.

I’m in the kitchen when the doorbell rings. Sounds like carol singers and Mum heads off to answer it. In her new-found grandmotherly mode, she’ll probably bung them twenty quid to do an entire concert for Leo in our entrance hall.

But moments later, the kitchen is full of Unbeatables.

‘Surprise!’ Luke says, pushing a bottle of wine into my hand. He’s made so much progress since we started playing, even going back to work part-time.

Mum has set up Dad’s snug as a viewing room, pulling down the massive screen like we’re going to watch a movie. As we take our seats, I’m slightly irritated by the fuss. Yet as the title music plays, and she plonks Leo on my lap, the others seem so excited that it’s started to rub off on me . . .

‘Football is a beautiful game,’ the presenter says as she stands outside the entrance to the pitch where we train, ‘and it’s usually played by beautiful people like Beckham: super-fit, young players who often model in their spare time.

‘But in this ground, there are players who won’t be getting any modelling contracts any time soon. Some are old, some are carrying a few extra pounds, most are out of condition.’

‘Oi!’ Steve shouts out. ‘That’s plain rude.’

‘. . . one thing in common. They’ve all cheated death. It’s a feat more impressive than a hat-trick. But as they prepare for their first ever season as a team, will The Unbeatables meet their match? Let’s find out . . .’

Mum and I exchange a glance, raising our eyebrows at the cheesiness of the script. No one else seems to mind: they cheer as the shot changes to reveal all of us, in our full out-of-condition glory.