“Never mind her topline, look at her shaping”

HOME, 6.30pm, and I’m in the downstairs study where the Strictly Come Dancing theme tune is rapping out its staccato beat.

It is time to drown my intellect (such as it is), and as I sing along joyously (“da de-da da da da da”), I’m hoping I might be able to drown it in the way I most prefer: with my daughter beside me on the sofa, and the door closed firmly against male opinion.

And right now, as Strictly gets underway, it seems I might be lucky, what with my husband making shepherd’s pie in the kitchen and my son listening to a sports podcast in the conservatory.