I walked in to the hotel to an imagined soundtrack of seraphic fanfares. I'd half expected to see television cameras outside, or at least the local press. It's not every day I get up at 5am and drive halfway across the county for a breakfast meeting, in full make-up with freshly washed hair.

I was greeted instead by some jaded looking men in suits sporting sticky name badges. I soon had one slapped on my lapel, but not before I'd expressed my need for caffeine, preferably introduced intravenously.

It was an interesting meeting and I came away slightly euphoric, caused not in the least part by my self-induced smugness at having a) made it on time, b) managing to make sensible conversation at that ungodly hour and c) being the only female present and much younger than the majority of the other occupants of the room. I've signed up for the next twelve months and in honour of the occasion have foregone any celebratory wine in the hope that I can repeat my gargantuan efforts at getting up early again tomorrow.

I even managed to stay awake and relatively perky all day and ate very little in an attempt to regain some calorific credit for the full English breakfast I'd heartily consumed with my fellow red-eyes.

I am becoming so virtuous my theme tune is in danger of becoming a Gregorian chant or perhaps the Tales of Hoffman - you know the one, wailing ladies, I think they used it on an advert with a cat.

There is little chance of any counter-attack against this holier-than-thou onslaught this weekend, I may partake of a small glass of sherry tomorrow evening and then spend Saturday carefully pressing creases into Jack's sponsored rugby shorts ready for Sunday's first match of the season. We've been told to be there for 9.50am which should be no problem given my recent Olympic getting-out-of-bed regime. I may lead the parents in a small cheer-leading routine. I must go and make some pom-poms.