The day of my stand-up debut arrives and my tummy spins cartwheels.

When I arrive at the pub, my first act of self-preservation is to down a drink.

I sit quietly going through my prompt cards, reflecting back on all my nerve-wracking dates, job interviews and every excruciating piano exam in my lifetime – this outstrips them all.

After what feels like an eternity, my friend stands up, takes a long swig from her pint and welcomes everyone, though I barely hear my name being mentioned because I’m mouthing my intro like it’s my last words.

Just as I’m considering dashing to the loo and doing a runner, someone nudges me and I realise I’m up.

My knees feel like they’re about to give way, but I try to channel Midge’s supreme self-confidence. “I’m amazing!” she frequently responds to anyone who questions how she accomplishes anything fabulous in her life.

“Thanks for coming out to this reputable establishment this evening,” I smile at the group gathered around me.

“I’m Christobel, and before you say it, I’m fully aware that my name sounds like it’s been brainstormed on a Mumsnet thread for Boden-esque baby names.”

Low chuckles.

“You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I’m not actually a Londoner.” Curious smiles.

“Took me seven years, but I reckon I’m only two piercings and a protest away from throwing off my suburban identity entirely”. Smiles all round.

Time to move things up a gear.

I tried stand-up comedy for the first time and this is what happened