It all started with a phone call. A young woman rang up, mentioning she had been given my name by a mutual friend.

She asked if it would be convenient to come over and have a chat with me about a project she was involved in.

I'm as curious as the next person so I said yes and asked when this might be.

"Like now," was the reply. So there I was, committed.

I'm not quite sure what made my friend suggest me but making a TV programme sounded as though it might be fun. I said I would do it.

First of all there was a sound interview, with a microphone, if not exactly up my nostril, pretty close to it.

Some of the more arcane language which swirled about my sitting room made me wonder if I might be suffering from terminal illness as they ferreted through my old photographs, looked at my (hastily tidied) house and went away promising to get in touch for the next stage.

Another phone call heralded the arrival of the four-person crew, a charming bunch of flowers "to dress the set", sandwiches (it was obviously going to be a long session) and a request to know where the kettle lived. My clothes had been chosen - black and gold sweater and black trousers - and away we went.

There followed a day of total unreality. Shots were pored over with wrinkled brows, furniture moved, curtains drawn and redrawn and I was moved about like a pawn in an enormous chess game.

Cups of tea and coffee arrived with pleasing regularity, followed by trips to the loo with the same regularity.

They wanted a few more contemplative shots in the garden and then the front door bell rang.

There stood a man whose clothes had obviously seen better days.

"I'm the gardener," he said, in very cultured tone.

"Not here, you're not," I replied. "I have a lady gardener."

"No, not the real gardener," he said. "I'm with the film crew," and off he went into my garage to find suitable tools to play around with in my flower bed.

I was filmed head on, side on, looking at the sky, doing everything bar a strip routine, watching my "gardener".

A welcome break for lunch, for which they had kindly brought sandwiches for me as well, and then off we went again. Would I mind being filmed putting my make-up on?

A swift move to the spare room - I had declared my bedroom off-limits as I had to stash the rubbish somewhere - and I went through the motions of picking up and carefully putting down various things to get the sound right. I would have thought lipstick sounds the same wherever you plonk it down but then what do I know?

Suddenly they all disappeared to go and fetch children from school. They said they would be back.

"But it will be dark," I murmured pitifully.

"Yes, we want some night shots," they said.

What my neighbours thought I can't begin to imagine as floodlights and reflectors filled the night air. I was instructed to walk to a window, lift the net curtain and look out soulfully, look left, look right, drop the curtain and retreat.

Well, it's all very well you laughing. You try emoting to a piece of double glazing.

There's more to come, including a visit to the gym (lots of heavy breathing in those shots). But in the meantime, I'm ready for my close-up, Mr de Mille.

Lights! Camera! Action! And don't forget to watch this space.