As usual, Brendan begins with my tresses. Forgoing a dampening spritz of water – the rain took care of that this morning – he blow-dries my locks with an assortment of brushes. Flicking my long hair up and out, he sets it all with an abomination of holding spray, bouffant style. Meanwhile, I’m browsing recent reports from marketing, hoping to discover something that may cement my success in today’s big meeting. So far, there’s no silver bullet.

Next up is Brenda, who layers on primer, concealer and foundation to my face until I’m slightly tangerine in colour (‘Bronzed, Gracie,’ Brenda insists) and then more ‘highlighter’ on my cheekbones, nose and forehead. Brenda is also favouring a pale-coral lipstick that blends in so well with my newly applied skin tone that my respectably plump lips are barely visible (I’ve been sneakily replacing it with a generous smear of my French Kiss pink lip stain before filming commences). On my mobile, I google what the proper celebrity chefs are up to lately. There’s not much help to be gleaned from out there either. It’s all restaurant chains and marriages going bust. Not for the first time, I wonder if being a commercially successful television chef isn’t more about being in some sort of personal spotlight, the worse the better, and less about food than it ought to be.

After about an hour of such pampering, preparing me for the bright lights, I’m sent on my way to my studio in the basement.

Unlike the explosion of colour on me personally, the room where we record Gracie Porter’s Gourmet Get-Together is painted dull grey and holds only the necessary equipment. There are two cameras and a boom microphone, a laptop and monitor on a table, some other equipment I’m still unfamiliar with, plus a few foldaway chairs. The floor is littered with lengths of looped-up wiring and cables and spotlights are anchored on the floor and dangle from the ceiling above. The kitchen set itself is dated cream laminate with pine panelling – resurrected after a long hiatus in cookery programmes when I joined. I inherited the electric oven, gas hob and a refrigerator prone to hissy-fitting. Only the microwave was purchased new for me. Here in the basement, there are no windows and, save for a ducted fan above the stove, precious little ventilation. The air becomes stifling once the big lights come on for filming.

Working in television is not as glamorous as I once envisioned. But our set is friendly. I very much want to keep my job.

I cross the floor towards my assistant, Poppy. Nobody else is here yet.