For the umpteenth time today, I skim bits and pieces in Liz Martin’s article. In the entertainment – and not the foodie – section of the Daily, in her first review of the new show, Liz describes Poppy as being ‘as effervescent as pop’ and Faith as ‘smoking hot, and just the right amount of humble, and not only about her terrible cooking skills, so that men love her and women want to be like her’. Whenever Liz mentions me, it’s all about the food – ‘Gracie confidently takes the lead on the slicing and dicing’, etc. I didn’t need Joanna to point out that I sound awfully dull – it jumps out from the page.

Liz, most likely because we get on well, respectfully steered clear of any raunchy association of me with the new format. Perhaps, when we’d met to discuss the new series, I’d overplayed my sensitivities? But with all the glittering praise heaped about elsewhere, I’ve been rather cast aside.

‘Do you think I’m dull, Faith?’ I throw her the slinky black top across the room. I’m sitting in the frilly pink skirt and my knickers and bra.

‘Ha! Chance would be a fine thing.’

I look at her suspiciously.

‘I mean, “dull” doesn’t spring to mind.’

‘You think I’m awful then? Because Joanna accused me of being awfully dull this morning. I’m wondering if it’s true?’

Faith squeezes herself out of a micro dress and into a pair of skinny jeans. There isn’t an ounce of fat on her. ‘Gracie, she never said you were dull or awful.’

‘Liz described you as “a saucy treat, hooking viewers with your never-ending legs and come-hither smile”,’ I read directly from the article. I cast the paper aside, too. Poppy makes to come over, probably to hug me. ‘And you were magnetic and simply magical in your bloody tutu, Poppy. I’m strictly about the food.’

‘Miss Gracie, what’s wrong with you today?’ Poppy flings herself at me.

‘I’m sorry, Poppy. I didn’t mean to be rude. But please get off me. Oh God, I am awful…’

Is my period due?

‘I think you’re beautiful,’ Poppy says.

‘She’s stunning,’ Faith agrees. ‘But if she wants to be written about as a saucy treat, she needs to get back into that teensy top and start smiling come-hitherly. Even better, put this on.’ Faith lobs me a lilac satin top from the not-yet-discarded pile.

The top is far too small for me – I’m not even going to try and get it on. And it’s purple. Poppy has just finished going through the various ‘vibrations’ of colours and, apparently, purple is both for royalty, which is nice, and sexual frustration, which isn’t.

‘I’m not sexually frustrated.’ I toss it aside.