Given the amount of news this sport has generated in the last few weeks, I have cast my mind back to the summer I decided to do a bit of mini-cabbing in south west London.

“What bad luck that it was not until this year that the Wimbledon uniforms had been designed by Ralph Lauren – I would have offered before but even I have to draw the sartorial line somewhere. I was banking on the fact that a woman in uniform is normally pretty irresistible, as in air hostesses or nurses who are reputed to go always armed with frozen spoons. Google it. (For men think firemen. Or Cossacks.) Years ago, pre-Epstein obviously, I even dragged my old gymslip out of retirement for a job interview but sadly for the Wimbledon drivers, Mr Lauren had decided to design a cabbage green, polyester shirt, beige (Beige! The horror) ‘slax’ and a plastic anorak of a particularly unflattering hi-vi shade. Prize for anyone who can think of a ‘flattering’ hi-vi shade. It was, fashion-wise, a suicidally low moment but as always with my devilish scheme, needs must.

Clearly the only area with any scope for self-expression was in footwear but even this was possibly unlikely to appeal to men who had chosen to spend their lives in plimsolls. And, to state the obvious, feet are not the first thing you notice about a driver and it strained even my fertile imagination to think of a plausible reason to have my Manolos balanced on the dashboard, at least on a first drive. Eventually I dispensed with the footwear altogether. The stiletto heels kept getting wedged under the accelerator and what with the screaming of the passengers and the screeching of other driver’s tyres, it was almost impossible to hear my mobile ‘phone. One passenger did observe, in French, that driving without shoes was illegal in France but I was able to reassure him, also in French, that it is allowed in England, providing that you are not wearing socks – a bit like the rule for men in sandals.

All this reminds me of an unfortunate incident in my distant past when I was on a shoot (Film, not grouse) with a truly gorgeous director. It remains a mystery to me why the media attract so many attractive women but virtually all the men wore cardigans, smoked pipes and ignored us. More than a little naively I asked the crew for advice and the senior cameraman offered to ply the object of my affections with strong drink at lunchtime (Those were the days!) and report back. ‘He’s a foot fetishist’ he slurred on his return, ‘Go for interesting shoes’.

And yet again, a novice mistake. I spent the next two weeks tottering around in heels that Naomi Campbell would have refused to wear, many of them borrowed from friends with differently sized feet, in total agony. Every day the crew would admire the day’s offering and award marks out of ten. From Mr Ken Russell and Bromley, nothing.

Years later I met the director again at a drinks party and was surprised to discover that he remembered me. ‘Good heavens’ I said, ‘I had no idea that you were even aware of my existence’.

‘Indeed I was’ he replied ‘But I was told that you were dating that cameraman, the one you wore all those wonderful shoes for. You know who I mean, whathisname, the foot fetishist’.