Secret Millionaire given the gift of charity in public dressing-down

NOT SO long ago, I found a sticky note on my desk asking me to ring back someone with an unfamiliar name,described in a scrawl as a TV producer working on a new series.

Now, when a C-lister like me gets that kind of message, we are immediately persuaded that this, at long last, is going to be our big break. All we have to do is call the number on the Post-IT note. Household name status awaits us. We’re going to be a weekly judge. Or an occasional mentor. Or get the once-off chance to drive Nell McCafferty around the country. Even that programme where they find out your ancestors were fourth-century rat catchers wouldn’t be the worst. It might, let’s be honest, be less of a challenge than driving Nell.

We live in hope, but that hope always falls on its smiley face. In recent years, the best offer I got was a chance to cook dinner for 10 total strangers for a charity of my choice. Right. While a camera rolled, I was going to slice my fingers into the chopped basil and then sit redfaced while the 10 guests dismissed what I’d cooked as dated, tasteless, and (knowing me) probably burned or incorporating a foreign object such as a baked oven glove.