'Just a little more eyeliner,' says the impossibly beautiful make up artist.

I'm at some TV studios in Old Street to promote Damaged Goods. I've done a lot of radio ( frankly I've got the face and arse for it ) but I've never before graced the screen.

I check my reflection. I'm wearing more make up than Boy George. My skin is so orange I look like a burnt satsuma.

'It won't look so heavy under the lights,' says the make up artist who I can't help noticing wears nothing more than a little gloss on her perfectly pouting lips.

When I'm finally ready my face is like a relief map of Africa. I don't look a day over eighty two.

The interview goes well, though it's hard to speak under the weight of my lipstick, but I'm glad to get away.

On the train home the other passengers stare at me and I wonder if they recognise me. Am I, gulp, famous? Then I realise they are probably wondering if I've escaped from the circus. A small boy cries when I smile at him so I spend the rest of the journey hiding behind a book.

When I call at my friend to pick up the kids they all recoil in horror.

From now on I'm definitely sticking with radio.

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