On Monday my husband Giles and I filmed Gogglebox. What could be nicer than being paid (a small amount) to watch television in your own cosy home with a crackling log fire and a Tibetan Spaniel? “Working” at home means there is no opportunity to lose your hat, gloves, keys, phone or wallet, or take a tumble on the escalators of the Tube while trying to wield two stones of hand baggage of the sort of generalised papers and equipment I need when I come to London for a business meeting with my PA Luciann. It’s always a surprise when we eventually watch Gogglebox on Channel 4 on Friday nights as I have no idea what “capture” the editors will have harvested from their lengthy hours of surveillance. Nor have any of the other families. We are all just being ourselves as there’s no way you can keep up an act for 12 or more hours in your own sitting room when the cameras are virtually invisible.  But the key to my being able not to think about the 3.4 million viewers at all is to remember that once we come off we’ll be nonebrities again in a couple of weeks. And never to read Twitter.