tatistics aren’t important, they’re just numbers. Irrelevant, arbitrary numbers. So obviously I don’t spend the evening on the internet, researching how many people watch WakeUp UK every morning.

(3,400,000.)

And I don’t find out the demographic of the viewers.

(Extremely widespread: students getting ready for school, families having breakfast, workers as they get ready to leave the house.)

And I definitely don’t find out roughly how many people watch the internet videos of the interviews.

(300,000 for a guy talking about trimming the edges of your lawn neatly.)

Most importantly, the thing I most absolutely don’t do is skip breakfast because I’m locked in the toilet, breathing in and out of a paper bag, and then spend the entire taxi journey to the studio tearing the bag to shreds and scattering it all over my lap.

Why would I do that? I’m not the old, anxious Harriet any more. I’m cool. I’m calm. I’m taking all of this in my stride.

Obviously.

“Harriet?” Dad says finally. Everyone has decided to come with me this time: the taxi is so full that the driver has started making grumpy sounds about what his insurance covers. Annabel’s taken the front seat and Dad, Nat, Toby and I are all crammed in the back, trying to put our feet in places that don’t already have feet in them. “Are you under the impression that you’re some kind of hamster or possibly bird?”

I look at the papery mess on my trousers. It’s true: if I was suddenly rendered much, much smaller, it would make excellent bedding.

“I’m making an ancient style of puzzle,” I tell him loftily. “When I have time, I will consider putting it all back together again.”

“Would you like me to make a start on it?” Toby asks eagerly. I tried to evade him, but after he explained how many buses he was going to have to catch to follow me, I relented. It’s easier if he just stalks me in the same taxi.

“No. But thanks.”

“I’m going to need to get out again I’m afraid,” Annabel says from the front. “I need to pee.”

“Again?” Dad sighs. “Honey, do you need a catheter?”

“No, it’s fine, Richard. I’ll just urinate all over this nice man’s seats and then we’ll just walk the rest of the way. Hang on, isn’t this your favourite jumper, darling? Maybe I can use it to mop up the mess.”

Dad’s face goes pale. “Stop the taxi.” He looks at all of us. “Never lend a pregnant woman cashmere.”

“I was going to anyway,” the taxi driver tells us, pressing the little green light so that we can hear him through the speakers. “We’re here.”

The taxi turns a corner and we all fall silent. Partly because it’s a little overwhelming arriving at an international television studio at 6.30am. And partly because Wilbur’s waiting for us. Wearing a bright pink top hat and silver jumpsuit.

“Is it me?” Annabel says as the taxi pulls to a stop and Wilbur takes his hat off and bows. “Or does that man just get weirder and weirder?”

Once we’ve disembarked, Wilbur adjusts the pink hat slightly and then sends everyone to sit in another part of the studio while I go with him to “get beautiful”. He looks at the frizz-ball masquerading as my hair. “Although, Baby-baby Panda,” he adds sadly, “it looks like we’re going to have to start from scratch again, doesn’t it?”

Just in case I was under some illusion that I may have transformed even slightly in the last week, it’s nice to be set straight.

“I can’t control it,” I explain in a small voice as he shepherds me down some skinny corridors towards a closed door.

“I can see that, Apple-blossom,” he sighs, narrowing his eyes at the top of my head. “Any chance that it’s controlling you?” He looks at my outfit. “Glad to see you’re styling it out, though. Are these your pyjamas, Bunny?”

I ignore him. I’m getting quite used to doing that now. They’re not my pyjamas, for the record. It’s a snowman-themed T-shirt and baggy patterned trousers from the Moroccan shop in town. These are the only clean clothes I have left.

“So what do we do first?” I ask nervously. “Do I have any lines to learn?”

“Even better than that, my special Sugar-peanut. I’ve got this.” And he holds out a small piece of plastic.

“A hearing aid?”

“I’m wiring you up, darling. With five million viewers, we reckon you might need some help.”

Five million? The internet lied to me?

I look at the little plastic thing with a mixture of relief and horror. “You’re going to tell me what to say?”

Wilbur throws back his head and laughs. “I’m not, Monkey-tiger. Can you imagine? I just don’t think my vocabulary would fit in your little mouth, darling. No, Yuka Ito is. Word for word.”

Oh, God. She’s here? “And all I have to do is repeat it?”

“And all you have to do is repeat it,” Wilbur confirms. He giggles again. “You see? I should so have been a model.”

I look at the earpiece apprehensively. OK, I can do this. Say whatever it is Yuka wants me to say and then get back to my normal life. School. Trigonometry. History club. Walking to school, instead of getting a taxi via Shepherd’s Bush and five million people.

“Now,” Wilbur says, “let’s get you ready and then we can get you both on to the sofa.”

My brain twangs. Both?

“But if Yuka’s sitting next to me,” I point out, “how can she…”

“Oh, Yuka’s not sitting next to you, Sweet-pudding,” Wilbur laughs, throwing open the closed door. “Nick is.”

My brain is now pinging in frantic little elasticated movements around the inside of my head.

Nick looks up, grins at me and then goes back to doodling on a notepad.

Would people please stop doing this to me?

“Did I forget to mention he was being interviewed too?” Wilbur adds, looking carefully at my face and then winking. “Oops.”