Morning, morning, morning reader, she said, worryingly briskly. Yes, I am feeling positive, even empowered.  I have been … wait for it … planning. A very new line.  My chequered career was peppered with shouts of “Busk it, darling” ringing across the studio floor in response to pretty fundamental questions such as ‘What in God’s name shall we do?”.  Preparation was, as a certain American lady said about taxes, for the little people.

This week has been a flurry of research, discussion, decisions, a whole series of firsts. We are off on the road again, to the Lake District.  Beat that, Mr Kerouac.  This is going to be like the programmes with Rob Brydon and what’s his name, only with savage cruelty instead of pathos.  I may even take a camera.

First thing to be sorted was the cast list.  No men.  Hardly even worth stating.  We want fun and by definition this is  not listening to someone shouting at the satnav and a thousand prostate-induced loo stops. No one of childbearing age.  We certainly don’t want a contraceptive crisis in the middle of nowhere. Participants must drink like a fish and swear like a trooper.  And no effing vegans.  Obviously.

We have taken a romantically named cottage.  Could be a cause for concern when one recalls the sodden acres of rusting caravans in Skegness, always called something like Apple Blossom Pastures.  This will probably turn out to be empty only because some desperate refugees turned it down as unfit for human habitation, the pictures on the web site having been Photo-shopped to death. It has a wood burning stove and I have taken the precaution of getting a fire starter kit.  No repeat of the unfortunate smoke-boarding incident in the Borders involving Staff Nurse, an erratic flame thrower and some petrol.

It transpires that there is a medical theme to the dramatis personae and bearing in mind my six memorable months on ‘General Hospital’ and that documentary on leprosy (Do NOT ask for details) I have appointed myself Maton.  We have a doctor, a staff nurse and a student nurse, always referred to as Sluice Room Sue for some reason.  Her inclusion means that there will have to be Extremely Strict Bathroom Protocols.  Who can forget the daily hours we spent waiting to use the lavatory while SRS reclined in bath memorising the Daily Mail? A second bathroom was a must.

Moving on let us discuss Dress Code.  We will not, not be going native.  No thick socks, trousers with zips at the knee, no maps in plastic.  And clean shaven. It’s exactly like dressing for dinner in the jungle.  We must maintain standards and technically, as someone with an engineering degree explained to me, wearing high heels when mountain climbing means that you are always on flat ground, at least on the way up.  On sober reflection  I think I should have asked for a diagram…

And how many times has that phrase crossed my lips?