I was invited to give a talk at the North Foreland golf club in Broadstairs last week.

“Why the blazes do they want you?” my mother asked, ever supportive. “You don’t know anything about golf, do you?” She’s not wrong there.

Worse, they’d made me promise not to say anything shocking. To talk about my life, but not say anything shocking. For half an hour, when I’ve never managed more than two minutes.

Why would you invite a kink model to give an after-dinner speech if you don’t fancy being a tiny bit shocked?

I wrote what I thought was probably a half an hour speech, when you factored in the inevitable fits of raucous guffaws. I delivered it to my cats, who responded with stony indifference, punctuated by occasional yawns.

Maybe 12 minutes, if I talked slowly. I panicked. I threw down more anecdotes on to my cue cards. I had never before done any public speaking, ever, of any description.

I was instructed to imagine my audience naked, but I’ve never fully understood how that’s meant to help. If they’re naked, why am I talking to them and not rolling them in custard?

I took the whole day off work to be nervous and choose an outfit. I’d been told smart casual, but there are only two events a year where women are allowed to attend, and I imagined they’d have taken the chance to bring out their finest frocks and furbelows.

I was aiming for a “respectable pillar of the local community” vibe, which rendered my choices limited. I went for a green off the shoulder number, but added pearls, which turns everything respectable, surely, or perhaps only self-parodic.

A lovely lady called Hilary looked after me when I arrived. She found me blustering and bashing nervously about the golf club’s panelled corridors like a panicking crow, took my coat and replaced it with a gin. A modern day hero.

Dinner first, and I’m afraid I was lousy company. People suggested jokes I could make, and asked what anecdotes I would tell. I smiled at them blankly, every word I’ve ever known sliding treacherously from my brain.

But the food was amazing. As were the waiters. Have you been? Anyone can rock up: you needn’t know anything about golf; they’ll let any old thug in, even me.

I had the kale and beetroot tart, which sounded suspicious; I licked the beast, then inhaled it whole, stopping only to mew in ecstasy, only just preventing myself from licking my plate, which, given we had said grace first, then stood to toast the Queen, I imagined would be considered poor form.

Stuffed and stifling a burp, I heard myself be introduced. Lawks-a-mercy. Here we go.

Once I’d stood up and started, I was pretty well fine. Strippers never forget how to work a room.

"Usually people ask what’s the weirdest thing I’ve been asked to do in a kink play session. Not this lot..."

I got a few laughs, even, although seldom where I expected them. I got some tuts and eye rolls too, but rather more laughs, I think.

I focussed more on the property portfolio and degrees I’d accrued over the years, and less on the grislier details of how I’d accrued them, since that seemed to please my audience.

When I stopped to check my notes to see if I’d remembered everything they all applauded, so I sat down. Only then did I realise my legs were trembling.

The Q&A session was wonderfully revealing. Usually people ask what’s the weirdest thing I’ve been asked to do in a kink play session. Not this lot.

My first question came from a doctor, who asked how I coped with the elderly chaps who took warfarin. An excellent and pertinent question! I was delighted to tell all.

Next a solicitor, who asked if I’d ever been arrested, and if my activities were entirely legal (probably, we decided, since boxers are allowed to punch each other, context is king); a chap who asked if I have public liability insurance, and counselled that I really need some; another who told me I should look into getting a tax efficient will.

Seems I was accepted as just another old pro, albeit odd and trembly. It was marvellous. They were charming. I sold six books, and went home, insufferably giddy.

So I can now add “after-dinner speaker” to my portfolio career package. Will work for tart.