It would be remiss of me to abandon this anecdote without mentioning the photographer, who was supposed to turn up during our dinner and take photographs for the local paper, but who was caught in traffic, and so arrived only when the prize-winner and I were leaving. We had our coats on and were standing outside on the pavement, about to step into our respective taxis, but the poor photographer! He’d had such a hellish drive, and he was here – late, but hopefully not too late – with all his kit. Of course, since it had snowed that day, the chance of getting some Winter Wonderland shots – me and Shirley trying to keep our fake grins fixed in place while our teeth chattered and further snow fell on our hoodless heads – was too good to miss, the photographer was sure we’d agree. I don’t know what made him so sure; he knew nothing about either of us. Perhaps that was why he was so determined to interview me as he snapped away.

What is it you do again? They never tell me much about who I’m photographing. Oh, a comedienne. You as funny as Morecambe and Wise, are you? I love Morecambe and Wise. They say women aren’t as funny as men, but I can’t see why that should be the case, personally. Are you funny? What sort of funny are you? Go on, try and make me laugh. I’ll give you an objective assessment, I promise – a mark out of ten. Ten for hilarious, zero for didn’t crack a smile. I don’t flatter people, me – I tell it straight.

That incident should have been my last straw. Bizarrely, it wasn’t. Clearly there’s a huge part of me that has no self-respect whatsoever. That’s why I need the protection of a multi-clause terms and conditions document.

My breaking point came when a PR firm for a comedy festival sent a car to collect me from home one day at 4.30 a.m. The driver rang the doorbell, waking me and Gabe. Luckily, it wasn’t a Liam night, but it easily could have been. ‘What …?’ I demanded, bleary-eyed. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

‘I’m here to collect Kim Tribbeck and take her to an interview,’ the driver told me.

I was confused. I had interviews scheduled for later that day in London, to help promote an up-and-coming comedy festival, but the first one wasn’t until 2 p.m. I’d been planning to get the 10.30 train from Rawndesley. When I sought clarification, I was told by a sleep-fugged PR person (to whom I greatly enjoyed giving a taste of her own rest-wrecking medicine) that she was sorry it was such short notice but an amazing opportunity had come up: a TV interview! On some obscure Sky channel that nobody watched! Had no one told me?

No. No one had asked me either.